


Jubilee

by Tammany



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, M/M, Romance, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-11
Updated: 2015-08-16
Packaged: 2018-04-14 03:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 26,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4548711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A shot at trying to do Alpha/Omega Mystrade. About which, more in the footnotes. All I will say here is that this is not "pure" conventional AO fic, because frankly I find a number of the tropes of AO illogical in any of a number of ways. But once you make it more logical, it's not classic AO anymore.</p><p>So. It's not classic AO. So be it.  It remains my attempt at Mystrade in an AO frame of reference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mycroft had known Greg Lestrade for almost a decade before he said the one thing he had thought he’d never say to anyone—much less to any Alpha. He’d given it long thought, though, weighing all the pros and cons, not just for himself, or for his elite little department hidden inside MI6, but also for Lestrade.

He’d long known him to be a beautiful man. A beautiful Alpha… Like most Alphas he suffered the burden of a profoundly distrusted mutation. Alphas were known for their strength, their speed, their tendency to commit—passionately. They were less admired for their driven virility, their possessiveness, and their tendency to spawn both Alpha and Omega offspring, regardless of whether their mates were normal homo sapiens—often called Betas—or the complementary mutation known as Omegas. The trait was dominant, through the Alpha line.

It was not all that surprising that not too many people hungered to match with an Alpha.

“Stupidest damned experiment mankind has attempted yet,” Lestrade had growled once, during the lead-up to his divorce from his Beta wife. “Sometimes I wish I could have a few sharp words with old Churchill and Roosevelt. What did they think they were doing mucking around with the genome?”

“Producing powerful, fertile citizens, to serve as soldiers and as civilians,” Mycroft had responded, voice dry. “Alphas are rather obvious that way. People miss that Omegas are often very nearly as strong, with a longer period of fertility than most Beta women. Science boffins trying to combine the strengths of both genders, with improvements.” He shrugged. “Typical thinking of the period. Treating humans as breeding stock, and imagining a level of control unknown to past generations. Science was the new magic of the age.”

“They didn’t have to live with it,” Lestrade said, wearily.

“No,” Mycroft said, sympathetically. Beta women found it difficult to live with the sexual and emotional drives of their Alpha mates…and most Omegas chose to use suppressants and hide, rather than be trapped in the intersection of an Alpha’s drives—and their own hard-wired needs.

Which was why it had taken Mycroft so many years to reach the day of revelation.

He’d been working toward it, though, for all the years before. So while his pulse rampaged, and his hands shook, his voice was strong the afternoon he said, quietly, “I’m Omega.”

Lestrade, who’d been completing the last of the paperwork he had to turn in to Anthea, froze in place, the pen clutched so tight in his neat, square fingers the nails turned white. “What?” He sounded drugged, or drunk.

“I’m Omega.”

Dark eyes rose from the forms spread out on the far side of Mycroft’s desk. “When…” He stopped, clearly realizing how stupid the question was.

Mycroft smiled, a tight, uncertain smile—he wasn’t sure what Lestrade’s reaction was, precisely. He’d been ready for anger that he’d never told before. He’d been prepared for Alpha-impulsive lust. He’d been prepared for the sudden, offensive thrust of dominance he’d encountered during his childhood and adolescence, when too many people had “the right” to know his alignment for bureaucratic reasons: doctors, teachers, coaches. He hadn’t considered that Lestrade might be simply too stunned to settle on any one reaction, though.

“I’ve always been Omega, of course,” he said, trying to soften the humor without giving way. It really was a stupid question. He waited then, wondering if Lestrade’s next question would be more to the point. It was.

“Why? I mean—why now? Why tell me now?’

Mycroft met the man’s eyes, and steeled himself, ashamed to admit how much this next bit terrified him.

“I’ve been using suppressants, of course,” he said. “That much is obvious, I know, once you know the truth. Like most Omegas.” He shrugged. “Going openly as an Omega is insane. Between the heats and the social attitudes and the way it disrupts your life? And there’s not an Alpha in the world who can scent an Omega, even out of heat, without going all obsessive-compulsive. It’s just easier to go the chemical castration route, unless you’re ready to consider a serious relationship with someone.”

There, he thought. That was overt enough to at least start the Alpha thinking.

Lestrade’s mouth opened—then shut with a snap. “I…” He scowled. “I’m not exactly desperate,” he said, irritated. “I’ve done the permanent relationship thing. It’s not like I’m just…”

Mycroft blinked, almost missing the underlying logic. Then it hit him—Lestrade, the Alpha, was no more at ease being seen as an easy, needy target than Mycroft, the Omega had ever been. It hadn’t even occurred to Mycroft that Lestrade might see this in exactly the same way he himself would see a too-presumptuous Alpha.

He blinked, and flustered, nose going pink with embarrassment. “I’m sorry—you misunderstood. Of course you’re not necessarily interested. I…I know I’m not precisely a catch, among other things. There are beautiful women, sensual Omegas, all younger than me. All less reserved than me. All with simpler lives than me.”

Lestrade frowned, and gave an uncertain grunt to acknowledge the apology. “But—if you weren’t just figuring me for a loser with no other choices, then… Really, Mycroft, why now?”

“Because whether you are interested or not—I am.” By now Mycroft knew he was crimson, face shining and hot with shyness and discomfort. “I just… I’ve known you for years. I’ve watched you for years. And I’m coming to the cross-roads. It really was time to decide if I ever wanted to present as an active Omega or not.” He risked meeting Lestrade’s eyes again. “When I asked myself—I realized that right now, and for years past, there was only one Alpha I was interested in presenting with. For. To.” He shook his head in frustration. None of the words was any less humiliating. “Whatever,” he growled. “You know what I mean.”

Lestrade looked at him in puzzled confusion. “Me?”

Mycroft shrugged. “I’m afraid so.”

Lestrade licked his lips nervously. “What if it doesn’t work out? Divorcing my wife was bad enough—and they say it’s nothing like trying to separate after an AO bond.”

“I don’t know.” Mycroft’s voice shook. “I’ve never… I started using suppressants when I was twenty. I’ve never had a full adult heat. I’ve never bonded. I’ve never lived with full Omega senses. I don’t know what will happen if I go off.”

Lestrade blinked—then something shifted in his attitude, and Mycroft realized he was seeing the first indication of an Alpha’s protective mode. There was something warm, and solid, and staunch that rose up in Lestrade’s expression, his body language. He leaned forward and caught Mycroft’s hand, saying, “Sorry, love. This is hard for you, isn’t it?”

Even through the dulling effect of the suppressant drugs, Mycroft could sense shifts—in Lestrade’s voice, in his scent. It felt like he imagined it would to see an archangel unfurl his wings and brood protectively, defending Mycroft even from his own feelings.

He didn’t know whether to bridle in offense—or melt. No one protected Mycroft. He could recall no time in his life when anyone had with any seriousness or dedication.

That could be a problem. He didn’t need a guardian angel hovering at his elbow. His work didn’t allow for it. His temperament didn’t conform to it. And, yet…

He allowed his hand to remain in Lestrade’s grip, saying simply, “No. It’s quite difficult. I don’t know if I can do it, Inspector. Indeed, I’m very afraid I’ll fail, and hurt you even more than you’ve been hurt already. Assuming you are interested at all. I will more than understand if you are not. An Omega is indeed more difficult to part from than a Beta, and Alpha-Omega relationships are notorious for their intensity, for better or worse. Often for worse. To risk all that for a middle-aged bureaucrat with a complicated life and a heavy burden of duty, with very little to offer beyond financial security, well… I would understand entirely if you declined, and ran like the very devil had presented Omega to you.”

Lestrade snorted. His thumb caressed Mycroft’s knuckles. “You undervalue yourself,” he said. Then his face contorted, confusion and surprise and dismay mingling. “Sorry. Sorry—I just—I’ve spent the last ten years thinking of you as a Beta. From things Sherlock said, I assumed you were gay, but not very active. It’s a bit of a leap to think of you as Omega. Hard to wrap my mind around.”

Mycroft nodded. “For the most part I have thought of myself much the same way,” he said softly. “Trying to think through the consequences of presenting Omega has been highly unnerving.”

Lestrade nodded. “What’s involved? I mean—I know a bit. All Alphas know a bit, because so many Omegas choose to pass rather than walk around like branded brood-stock. But I honestly don’t know much about what it’s like for an Omega to transition.”

“Socially it can range from very simple to catastrophically difficult, depending. Many countries have no Alpha or Omega mutations, and regard Omegas in particular as abominations of one sort or another—deviant, disgusting, a threat to all normal men and women. And many Omegas pass quite successfully as men, up to and including having fertile relationships with Beta women or other Omegas.” He shrugged. “The cosmetic differences are not so great that they can’t be downplayed or disguised by a clever Omega. I’m told some Beta women never knew their ‘husbands’ were Omega until they had an Omega baby.”

“But you don’t have that kind of problem to sort out?” Lestrade said.

“I have so little to sort out I might as well have been celibate,” Mycroft sighed. “Though I will say that none of my few lovers ever seemed to realize I was Omega, rather than just a rather underdeveloped Beta male.”

Lestrade nodded to himself. “Not all that intimate, then.”

“I have had lovers,” Mycroft said, embarrassed as the suggestion of complete asexuality.

“You can have lovers without ever being particularly intimate,” Lestrade said, voice dry. “Hell—you can be married a decade only to realize you were never really very intimate.”

Mycroft nodded, and looked away, embarrassed for Lestrade. “I suppose,” he said. “I… After a lifetime on suppressants, I find it difficult to know what or who I am.”

“You’ve never been the Omega you were born to be,” Lestrade said, as though that were simple enough to understand. “You won’t know until you’ve presented. Probably gone through heat more than a few times. It’s not like sex is something simple for anyone, much less for AO mutations.” He chuckled, and wrapped his fingers more firmly around Mycrofts. “Do you think we could maybe take this in stages? Not everyone bonds on the first heat.”

Mycroft shivered. He felt small and helpless as he admitted, “I don’t know. I really don’t. I’m…worried…that once I start I’ll end up clinging tight.”

He didn’t know how large his eyes were, or how frightened. He didn’t even hear the faint, high panic threaded through his voice. He did know he was clinging too tightly to Lestrade’s hand. He tried to ease his fingers loose, only to have Lestrade smile at him—sweet, happy, bright—and hold tight.

“Shhh. It’s all right. Are you willing to try to take it in stages? As a gamble?”

Mycroft snorted, then. “Oh for goodness sake, Greg. Do you honestly think I’d have told you if I hadn’t already decided you were worth all the gambles inherent in this stupid situation?”

“Oh.” Lestrade stared at him—and for the first time the older Alpha blushed. “Ah. I…hadn’t thought of it that way.” He frowned again, deeply, brows furrowing. “Why?” he asked once more, voice plaintive and uncertain. “Why me?”

This Mycroft could answer, even if it was enough to make him want to hide his burning cheeks. “Because I’ve had over a decade to conclude I love you. Even with suppressants. Even without it ever having anything to do with desire, much less heat or an AO bond.” He shrugged, and gave a very rueful smile. “You’re a wonderful man, Inspector.”

Lestrade just stared at him. Mycroft laughed. “You’re more stunned than when I told you I was Omega.”

“No one ever told me they loved me even through suppressants,” Lestrade husked, voice suddenly hoarse. “No one ever told me I was…that they…” He gulped, then, and for the first time his hands shook. “I’m sorry. I just…”

Mycroft felt the sweet, deep affection that had made him decide at last to reveal his sexual alignment. “It’s all right,” he said.

Lestrade shook his head. “To gamble like this. For me…”

Mycroft nodded. “Yes. Well. You’re worth it.”

Lestrade gripped Mycroft’s hand so tight it hurt.

“I think you’re breaking bone.”

“Oh. Sorry. Sorry. I just… it’s all a bit of a shock.”

“I know.”

Lestrade took a deep breath, then said, “I’m for it, if you’re willing. Step at a time, and see where it leads.”

“It leads to heat, unless something entirely unexpected occurs.” Mycroft’s sense of humor had woken, and he smiled, caught between laughter and shyness. “I go off the suppressants, and over the next months my Omega metabolism begins to take control. If I understand correctly, my body will show some signs, and my moods will swing. But the first major shift will be heat.”

“Your first adult heat.”

Mycroft shrugged, unable to admit how the thought frightened him. “We all have to have a first time,” he said. “Have you ever been with an Omega in heat?”

“Never with one I was close to,” Lestrade said. “One in college. He wanted to get all the experience he could before bonding, and was sampling all the Alphas he could. Another whose heat came off schedule. Surprised him badly, and I was the only Alpha available he felt safe with.”

“So you’re ahead of me,” Mycroft said.

“Not by much.”

“All those years married to a Beta ought to offer some data points too.”

“Not about heat,” Lestrade said.

They stared across the desk at each other.

“This is going to be difficult,” Mycroft murmured.

“Maybe not difficult—but it’s not going to be casual, is it?” Lestrade’s voice was wry. “Not just something that just happens without any attention on our part.”

“No.”

“When are you going off the suppressant?”

“Tonight, if you are…serious about this.”

He nodded. “Serious. Yeah. Ok. And…” he looked at Mycroft. “We should spend time together,” he said. “Because otherwise neither of us will really be properly aware of how the shift is taking you. It’s going to show most in terms of how you respond to an Alpha, after all.”

“And how an Alpha responds to me.”

They were both on the edge of panicked stage fright just thinking about it.

“You can stay at my residence,” Mycroft said, bracing himself. He’d never lived with anyone before…but it seemed the most logical way to ensure he and Lestrade were in regular contact. “Just as roommates, for now. But…”

Lestrade nodded. “It makes sense. But—what do I do about my own flat?”

“I can cover any costs involved in leaving,” Mycroft said. “And if this doesn’t work out I can make sure you don’t lose because of me.”

Lestrade grimaced, and said, “I’m the Alpha—I’m supposed to protect you.”

“I’m the Omega—nurturing and supportive,” Mycroft quipped back.

They both laughed. The sound was breathless, reckless, a little frantic.

“We’re doing it, though,” Lestrade asked, seeking confirmation.

Mycroft hesitated, then nodded, firmly. “I think so, Inspector.”

“Greg. I mean—under the circumstances….”

“Very well. Greg.”

“I’ll email you tomorrow with plans for moving in to your place,” Lestrade said. “I assume I won’t need much?”

“I doubt you’ll need anything, in all honesty. Bring what you care about. The rest can be sent to Oxfam.”

“If they’ll have it,” Lestrade snorted. He rose, clearly unsure how to proceed. “Um. What now?”

Mycroft frowned. “I have no idea. What do you think should come now?”

Lestrade shrugged. “I don’t know. I go home, I guess.”

“I can have my driver take you.”

“No. My car’s in the car park.”

Mycroft nodded. He and Lestrade walked uneasily to the office door together, and stood staring at each other. It was Lestrade—Alpha, after all—who took the initiative, then. He reached out and pulled Mycroft close, not embracing him or attempting a kiss, but leaning his forehead against Mycroft’s.

Mycroft could feel the faint tickle of the man’s breath on his upper lip. He felt his body soften and ease closer to Lestrade’s. It wasn’t that different from the male Beta’s he’d rarely slept with…and yet, it was. For the first time in his life, Mycroft was an Omega with an Alpha…and both of them were committed to following where that led.

He shivered, and leaned closer, caught between delight and fear when Lestrade wrapped him in one arm and held him near. After a moment they drew apart.

“I’ll look forward to your email tomorrow,” Mycroft said.

Lestrade nodded. “Maybe we can have dinner together?”

“I’d like that.”

“Good,” Lestrade said, then grinned an big, idiotic grin. “Yeah. Ok. Good.” He opened the office door, gave Mycroft a radiant smile, said “good” one more time, and was gone.

Mycroft drew his breath, eyes closed, and let it sink in.

He’d done it. He’d told Lestrade, and made his offer, and been as accepted as he could really expect. They were going to try.

Which meant sometime in the next six months or so, Mycroft would stand naked and helpless, driven mad by his own biology, with the one man who might ever truly possess him—not only as an Alpha, but as the man Mycroft had come to love.

Mycroft had never been so frightened in his life—and could not imagine how he’d survive the greater terror of that first heat. Hope alone was all he could imagine might see him through…and he was surviving on hope already.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's POV....

Lestrade had kept little from his divorce, and he’d come to wonder why he’d kept what he had. Sitting in his kitchen in the dim dawn, typing up a list of what he actually cared to transport to Mycroft’s, it seemed to him that all that really mattered to him could be packed into a single cardboard carton. That included a few remaining childhood mementos, his diplomas from uni and then from Hendon, a small sheaf of commendations, and two medals earned over a successful career. His guitar wouldn’t fit, he supposed. His wardrobe might be pitiful compared to Mycroft’s, but it did still warrant a hanger-box and a crate of its own. He decided he wanted to keep his best-loved cooking pots and tools—if things didn’t work with Mycroft, he’d regret losing the enameled cast iron and the good knives, after all. But books had long since been transitioned over to digital copies when possible, as had music and video. The furniture? He kept one battered, homely foot-stool his mother had used…definitely a foot-stool, not an ottoman. It was small, and worn, with the thin chintz covering the cotton batting on the top of the stool on beyond horrible. But he’d keep that.

One picture painted by a friend. One photo taken by a girl he’d dated in uni.

Nothing else.

The truth was, even with so little, he’d done well for himself, he thought. Then, given the situation, his mind took the next logical step, and he thought how few Alphas ever achieved anything that could be called success in their lives. He scowled.

If Omegas gulped suppressants and passed as Beta men, Alphas were trapped—unless they’d been lucky enough to have parents who started them on hormone treatments before the even hit the leading edge of puberty. Their bodies proclaimed them—that little bit of extra poise, extra muscle, that movement that assured the world they had power to spare. An Alpha might just possibly pass in a state of rest. In motion, people knew instantly—it telegraphed itself.

And the internal pressures were worse. It had worked to Lestrade’s advantage as a policeman: the Alpha tendency to try to take charge fit the role, as did the reflex to protect “lesser” people under his wing. And as a policeman he was seldom around anyone but his team long enough to develop that thick layer of possessiveness that was one of the hallmarks of an Alpha.

He couldn’t hide his alignment, but his alignment was a good match for his profession and the culture of the police. He had been able to make it work…and he’d been one of the lucky who learned to manage his own impulses at a young age. Some never learned.

A lot of those ended up dead in pubs and alleys. He’d “solved” too many murders of Alphas over the years.

He swore under his breath, feeling his emotions spin up. He seldom thought about his alignment. Hadn’t for years. Damn Mycroft for suddenly making it the center of both their lives….

Damn Churchill and Roosevelt and World War Two and damn all the science boffins who’d thought it clever to go making British and American supermen to meet their imagined ideal. He wondered if they’d ever asked themselves how Alphas were supposed to integrate into ordinary life and culture. He suspected they hadn’t—that they’d just assumed that their strong, possessive, sexually driven, emotionally obsessive supermen would rise to the top by dint of their obvious superiority.

It hadn’t ever occurred to them what normal men and women would feel toward Alphas. The women were bad enough—women were already leery of male possessiveness and insistence on dominance. The men? The men wanted to kill every Alpha who walked into their patch, everything about them shouting “You think you’re hard enough, boys? I’ll show you hard.”

Lestrade had only dealt with the worst of it once, as a boy in uni, when he’d made the mistake of walking into a blue collar pub in longing for the accents and attitudes he’d grown up with. His body, his scent, his voice—apparently everything about him had told the men drinking their pints that there was a cocky damned Alfy come to show them what was what…a uni boy at that.

He’d been a week in hospital, and three months before the last cast was off.

The only Alphas who succeeded in any great way, aside from the entertainers who snatched up the macho roles in movies, where those who could tamp it down, keep it banked, get a grip on their own exaggerated manliness. The rest?

Alphas died younger than any other native portion of the population, beaten only by immigrants who came in with health and sanity issues, and who remained with ongoing social and professional problems. Aside from that, though, it was Alphas. Alphas had the highest alcoholism and drug rates. Alphas tended to drop out of school soonest—never welcome by their Beta peers, and struggling to cope with their own emotional reactions to the people around them. Alphas tended to live hard, die young, and leave a corpse so used up it wasn’t even good for organ donations.

All that intelligence, all that drive, all that energy—and instincts that made them walking advertisements for why “dominant” was often just a synonym for “boorish.”

And their sex lives? Lestrade had felt lucky to end up with one long-running marriage to a Beta, even if it had eventually ended.

The trouble was, to an Alpha everyone else looked at least a bit like an Omega. Beta women looked like Omegas—smaller, weaker, capable of carrying children to term. Straight Beta men looked like Omegas—male in form, male in culture, if not really “right” in sexual cues. Gay Beta men really looked like Omegas. Indeed, often Omegas who passed looked less like Omegas that ordinary Betas who just happened to display the wrong social or physical traits. Of course, in part that was because Omegas like Mycroft, who passed, worked hard not to display those traits…leaving ordinary Alphas so desperate they practically projected Omega traits onto everyone around them.

Lestrade had managed to escape most of that. He’d had a good life. Good friends. His team appreciated him—and they all knew what he was. The Met had promoted him, and not on any kind of quota deal: he’d earned his own way.

And he was about to risk it all for a closeted Omega who’d decided to come out just in time for a last minute shot at family planning?

He scowled, and downed the last of a second large mug of strong tea. Was he crazy?

In spite of his doubts, he copied his list to an email, put together a rough schedule that seemed do-able, and sent it off to Mycroft. Then he was off to the Met.

No one called him for a case until mid-morning. He didn’t enjoy it—it gave him too much time to brood and play with paperwork, and wonder if he should cancel dinner with Mycroft, prior to cancelling the entire endeavor.

He did’t, though. Instead he listened to the chatter in the bull pen, and remembered the days his marriage had been good, and right. Not enough days—never enough.

“Anovver killin’” one of the constables shouted at half-ten. “Alpha, God ‘elp me. Why’s it always an Alpha?”

Later, Lestrade, looking at the broken body of a man who’d tried one time to many to make a connection with a Beta man who didn’t much like “Alpha Attitude,” answered the question in his own mind.

We’re not meant to be alone, he thought. When those damned fools made us, they made us pack wolves, not lone wolves. Only they told us we were each and every one of us supposed to be head of the pack. It’s bad enough all the Beta men half believe it—but we believe it down in our guts and our bones, where we can’t talk ourselves out of it. And it kills us, every time. We’re not meant to be alone…

He washed carefully after work. He put on his best suit, such as it was. He examined his pride and vanity, and packed them away with a number of other things he was prepared to throw away if this move came through. Then he took a cab over to the restaurant Anthea had emailed him was the choice for dinner that evening.

The maître d’ waved him through.

“He wouldn’t have seated me yesterday,” Lestrade said, wryly, as a waiter saw him to Mycroft’s table.

Mycroft, looking up, said “Perhaps not. That doesn’t mean he’d be right not to, though.” He snapped open his own napkin and spread it neatly over his long thighs.

Lestrade sat beside him. Rather than spend ages fiddling with the napkin, he picked up his water glass and took a long sip. He relaxed and studied the Omega sitting beside him. His Alpha senses stirred softly, as though a vast serpent coiled sleepily in his belly. He drew in a deep breath, and let it out.

“I only went off the suppressant last night,” Mycroft said, without looking up from the menu. “My body won’t have changed in the least, yet.” One corner of his mouth crimped up, though, amused.

Lestrade said nothing, yet. Instead he watched, and waited, and let his inner Alpha keep drawing in long, deep breaths and stirring in the dark, deep cavern of his stomach.

Slight, he thought, eyes crinkling. The difference was slight, and probably as much Mycroft’s own knowledge of what they were attempting as any difference caused by going off the suppressants. But that was quite enough to change an Omega’s biochemistry. What he knew, what he thought, his own fear and anticipation—those had a charged effect of their own, and that effect was no longer being instantly countered by artificial biochemistry.

“You’re making me nervous,” Mycroft said, after several silent minutes of the Alpha’s regard.

Lestrade shrugged, and smiled apologetically. “You still read clearer than you have ever since I met you,” he said, in low tones that would not carry to the next table. “Can’t blame me for wanting to get a sense of what I’m getting into.”

“Literally,” Mycroft drawled, irony primed and with the safety off.

Lestrade choked back a laugh. “Literally, too, I suppose,” he conceded…and without meaning to he again drew a deep breath. His eyes met Mycroft’s. “It’s got you rattled, too.” His voice made it a statement.

Mycroft blushed. “We should order soon,” he said. “That poor waiter is dancing around like he’s going to wet himself.”

Lestrade grunted agreement. He flicked open the menu and scanned the vast array of food intended for people who expected more than Lestrade usually did. He sighed. “Recommendations? You’ve et lunch and dinner wi’ me enough times.”

Mycroft looked up, considering in cool reserve. “You’re a bold enough eater,” he said. “Not all burgers and pork pies.”

“Bit of a curry,” Lestrade said, modestly. “Thai noodles, sometimes.”

“Bold,” Mycroft said again, considering it far more obvious than Lestrade did. Once the English decided foreign food wasn’t poison or treason, they could be valiant trenchermen. “This is just European food. Nothing you’d find all that challenging, except perhaps for a few of the offal dishes.”

“Learned to eat heart, liver, and kidneys long since,” Lestrade replied. “Not too fond of stomach or intestine, though, I’ll confess.”

Mycroft’s mouth flickered again, that tiny up-turn at the corner of his mouth there and gone like flickering sunlight in a leafy grove. “Then it’s simple enough—what are you in the mood for?”

Lestrade considered. He started to say “steak,” because it was easy and good and uncontroversial. Then he considered something with fish, and thought better of it—fish was too easily abused. He looked at Mycroft, and said, softly, “Truth? I’m needing comfort food tonight. Had a bad case today. Alpha killed in a bar brawl. Had a touch of the ‘there but for fortunes.’ Can you recommend anything soothing?”

“Nursery food? Such synchronicity,” Mycroft drawled, but he looked down at the menu and frowned, thinking. “It’s hardly state of the art, but then that’s the point. Boeuf Bourguignon over noodles, perhaps? An iceberg salad? And to finish they make a lovely bread pudding…”

Lestrade smiled—the first real smile of the evening. “I’d like that, yeah,” he said. “Not very imaginative—and I’ll admit, I’d like plain mum’s beef stew even better tonight. But a good pick.”

Mycroft nodded, gestured to the waiter, and gave their order with smooth aplomb. He arranged for wine to be brought, and when Lestrade asked, he arranged for hot tea, also. Then, when the waiter left, he met his dinner partner’s eye. “You wouldn’t be dead in a bar brawl,” he said, with certainty.

“No?” Lestrade made a gloomy Eeyore face. “It’s where too many of my sort end up.”

“And mine, if they’re caught, get raped and beaten to death in men’s rooms—and the killers are as likely to be gay as straight,” Mycroft returned. This time his voice was carefully calibrated not to carry. “Our creators were more than a little lacking in foresight. It never occurred to them that we would be seen as rivals—even as aggressors.”

Lestrade grunted agreement. “Solved it soon enough. Well—I say solved. The bastard who did it was pinned in the corner by the local constable. The man still had the beer bottle he used in his fist. Not really a case for Sherlock—thank God. All we needed was Sherlock swanning around making things worse. The place was tense as a cat’s swim party. Nobody happy.”

“No,” Mycroft said, softly. “They seldom are happy.” He looked blankly around the restaurant. “I daresay I’ll have to give up some of my favorite venues, if we go through with this,” he added.

“Here?”

“No. I’ve never noticed any sign they’re biased—though of course, some of the clients are. Other places, though. We’ll have to see how the Diogenes deals with its first outed Omega. There’s a good chance the key members will successfully argue it’s a men’s club, and that while an Alpha might qualify, no Omega could.”

The thought of Mycroft deprived of the silent retreat of his club was sad. Lestrade was grateful when the teapot arrived. He gave his attention to putting together a proper builder’s cuppa, ignoring the high quality of the Assam the restaurant had provided.

“How’s Sherlock going to take it?” he said, casually. “Glad you’re coming out, or wish you’d stayed hidden?”

Mycroft didn’t answer.

Lestrade looked up, only to catch a shaken, stunned expression just as Mycroft attempted to suppress it.

“What?” he asked, bewildered.

“God.” Mycroft reached for a glass filled with a gleaming white Zinfandel, glowing deep pink in its glass. “I hadn’t really thought about Sherlock.”

Lestrade frowned. “What about…” he blinked. He considered.

Alphas generally handed on dominant genes. Their offspring were most often Alphas or Omegas, except when something went wrong. Similarly Omegas, while they seldom produced Alpha offspring with Beta mates, did regularly produce Omega sons. It was a complex web of dominance levels, linking genes, and mutations tied to X and Y chromosomes—not easily summed up. But if Mycroft was Omega, it seemed likely Sherlock should be Alpha or Omega himself.

Lestrade’s gut assured him, intensely, that Sherlock was not…and as soon as he thought to ask the question, he knew the answer. Alphas and Omegas reproduced their own kind—but occasionally—rather too often, really—something went wrong.

“He’s a mule, isn’t he?” Lestrade said.

Mycroft’s silence was answer in its own right.

It made sense of far too much, Lestrade thought. “What’s his base biology?”

“He should have been Alpha,” Mycroft said. “He never did develop properly.”

“Can he function as a Beta?”

Mycroft shrugged, and sighed. “Very hard to say. He has refused to try.”

Lestrade nodded, and sipped hot tea, and considered his wild, temperamental friend. He thought about Dr. Watson. “Does John know?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Is Sherlock in love with him?”

Mycroft shrugged again. “Given his biochemistry, I’m not sure there’s a clear and reliable answer to that question. I’d have said it was impossible for him to develop that blend of lust and affection for anyone—but then there was Miss Adler, and she quite altered my expectations.”

No one would ever mistake Sherlock for the Alpha his genetic pattern would suggest he should be. A Beta, perhaps—with quite a lot of question whether he was gay or straight. Maybe an Omega, though most Omegas were stockier and better padded than Sherlock.

“How long has he known?”

“I doubt he’s ever not known.”

“And he knows about you?”

Mycroft nodded.

Lestrade let out a heavy breath. It explained so much. Sherlock a mule—and his brilliant big brother a closeted Omega. And with their respective personalities to factor in! What a recipe for twisted resentments and grudging knowledge on each side that resentment was entirely inappropriate either way.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Sorry never mended anything.” Mycroft stopped, then, and gathered himself. “And now I have to say I’m sorry. That was rude, and nothing you deserved. Thank God dinner’s coming, or I’ll dig myself a grave deep enough for a giraffe.”

They bent over their plates.

Lestrade could have sworn he still scented the faint, new-spring trace of Mycroft’s wakening Omega, even over the burgundy scent of his dinner.

Or perhaps, he thought, it was just his own Alpha, too long contained, ignored, bribed with a Beta mate, now waking from a sleep no less real than Mycroft’s suppressant-induced stasis. Knowing his associate was Omega changed how he saw him. He was more sensitive to the micro-expressions that fled over his face, there and gone. He noticed tiny gestures of nervousness played out in a knife held too tightly. He realized for the first time, with aching tenderness, that Mycroft used his fork with the tines curved up—lower-class usage, rather than upper, suggesting his upbringing had been less posh than Lestrade had thought. He noted how aware Mycroft was of the room around them—how he controlled his voice, chose his public face.

He saw him, for the first time, as vulnerable.

He knew, as all Alphas knew, that Mycroft would loathe him for that. An Omega was strong—often even stronger than a Beta man. Omegas were capable. Omegas were far more than supporting players with nothing better to do with their lives than to huddle under an Alpha’s protecting arms, looking up in awed gratitude.

He understood the resentment Omegas and Betas both felt when faced with Alpha paternalism—and could no more stop feeling it than he could stop breathing. With every second, he grew more aware of Mycroft as Omega—an Omega he already valued highly. With every second, he felt his own personal protective field extend more completely around Mycroft.

Mine, he thought, and shivered with it.

Oh, God. I’m in so much trouble. And, yet…

Mine. He’s mine—to protect and support, to love and cherish.

What the hell am I going to do?

Mycroft looked up from his own twinned mutton chops, and smiled vaguely, apparently not telepathic enough to know his dinner partner had turned into the classic Alpha nudge.

“I’m glad you came,” he said.

Lestrade forced a smile, and swallowed another bite of beef and noodles. “Me, too. It’s good to be out with a friend.”

Mycroft smiled more completely, then—a smile that lingered, rather than racing off. A smile that warmed his eyes. “Yes. It is.”

And somewhere in the dark Lestrade’s inner Alpha whispered in longing, “Oh, mine! Please, please, be mine!”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNING, WARNING, WARNING. This chapter--perhaps more than any future chapter--deals with the ick and creep of Alpha-Omega premises. It's where Our Heroes face the way AO biology subverts agency, dignity, and choice, and the humiliation either partner can feel in the face of what heats do to the participants. 
> 
> It's not nice, but IMO it is a necessary stage of the story, if I'm to make this resolve as non-ick. In the end I did not "invent" the Omegaverse. All I can do is try to invent a constructive, healthy, happy way to deal with the Omegaverse. But, anyway. Consider yourselves warned. This section inspects some legitimate fears and revulsion regarding AO sexual behaviors.

Mycroft came home from that dinner with an unsettled mind and heart. Lestrade had changed…

He had changed in response to his sense that Mycroft had changed.

Mycroft forced himself to stand naked in front of the vast mirror in the door of his armoire that night, after he’d undressed. He studied his body.

He’d long worked to ignore it—at least to ignore it when it was uncovered and unadorned. Dressed, he examined himself with razor-sharp attention not just daily, but over and over during any given day. Did he appear professional? Male? Like a Beta male? Did his Omega genetics show in any way? Was he passing? If he was passing, was he also excelling professionally?

There were the minor battles he waged with himself. People associated Omegas with women and gay men, and extended to them an assumption that they would be fashion and appearance obsessed. Beta men and Alphas were expected to be more casual, more indifferent to clothing and overall appearance. Mycroft was unsure what “real” Omegas felt or thought—but he knew Omegas who were passing had no choice but to worry. Too well dressed, and they were risking being identified as Omegas…or, somewhat more desirably, as gay Beta men. Yet Omegas in truth had far less reason to worry about appearance, at least in respect to their mating strategies. The pheromones of Omega heat, and the wild rutting need of Alphas exposed to those pheromones, made appearance largely a matter of indifference. In the end an Alpha cared more what his mate smelled like and behaved like in heat than he cared how an Omega looked.

But everyone else cared…and imagined, and made up their own little theories about what “real” Omegas looked like, and how they acted, and what they wanted. If you were passing you ended up neck-deep in the swamp of public fantasy and conjecture. Your life was constantly subject to subjective and ill-informed rumor and speculation.

That night, though, he looked at his naked body. His real body. The only real standard he could personally apply to being Omega.

The suppressants had kept his physique comparatively firm, without the complicated blend of fat deposits and muscles that resisted definition and crisp cut outlines that were the natural state of the Omega body. Covered with his fine suits, he could easily pass as a Beta male—a slightly soft Beta male, but given demographic norms, he showed no clear sign of his Omega status.

Naked, though, he felt it was almost impossible to ignore. Even using suppressants he carried a slight fat layer over his pectoral muscles. His nipples were large and plump, compared to those of most Beta men. His belly showed a slight padded curve where the quixotic Omega uterus and ovaries lay, low in his belly. His hips, while not as wide as many Beta women’s, were wide for a man, with a soft layer of fat.

He had a cock—but at rest it was somewhat small compared to the average Beta man’s, though in full arousal there was very little difference in size or rigidity. His testicles were more obvious indicators of his Omega status—they were small, seeming like unripe little peas in the soft draped skin of his sack.

He stared at himself. He’d been off his suppressants for barely a full day, and yet Lestrade was already convinced he sensed changes flagging Mycroft as an Omega. How much of that was a reaction to his own new knowledge?

How much was real—an Alpha’s acute reaction to Omega attributes?

Mycroft fled the cold eye of the mirror. He showered quickly, fighting to ignore each touch, the response to each touch, the internal critique analyzing each response, the meta-critique in which he analyzed his internal critique… He dried quickly. He shaved and brushed his teeth and wrapped himself in baggy, comforting flannel pajamas. He scurried to his bed, slipped between cool sheets, and hurled himself into sleep.

It was the first time he faced the fear and uncertainty of going off his suppressants. It was hardly the last. Some days it seemed all he did was run the tally and weight the indicators.

His body was changing. He couldn’t pretend it wasn’t, though he tried.

oOo

“You’re sure you don’t want to keep more?” Mycroft said, looking at the small heap of boxes and carry-bags piled in the sitting room of his flat. He did not say his art collection alone would take up two or three times as much packing space—but he thought it.

“That’s all,” Lestrade said.

His voice was calm. His body language, though, was tense and unsettled. Mycroft noticed. He’d been off the suppressants for over two weeks, now, and even he couldn’t pretend he wasn’t changing. Omega senses long kept dull through the chemical cocktail of the suppressant medications were waking. He had forgotten the degree to which Alphas and Omegas were alike. As odd as it seemed, there was nothing so much like a “natural” Omega than a “natural” Alpha. They shared a radical array of extra and augmented senses. They shared entire suites of behavioral imperatives. Even where they seemed most to differ, they were linked. An Alpha’s unplanned display of dominance begged for an Omega’s reflexive display of submission: the two behaviors were meaningless in solitude. Only together did they form a single meaningful behavioral unit binding Alpha and Omega into a concrete social structure.

Mycroft’s nostrils flared as he scented the Alpha moving into his territory. Lestrade smelled of so many things Mycroft could barely define. He gendered Mycroft’s previously ungendered home. Mycroft’s own ascendance into his Omega body only exaggerated that gendering. The flat was no longer an asexual abode of an asexual man passing as a gay Beta male. It was the sexualized abode of what might, someday, be a bonded AO pairing—and both Lestrade’s and Mycroft’s bodies pumped out floods of biochemical to further that end.

Lestrade glanced over, noted the scenting behavior, and gave a wry smile. “Yeah,” he said. “Even I can smell it. Sorry. Apparently my inner Alpha’s a determined bastard.”

Mycroft smiled tightly. “Not your fault,” he said. Yet he struggled with it, and with a hunger to allocate blame. Why could Lestrade not control those biological and physical cues? Why did everything he did and said, all the way down to how he sweated, have to join in the ongoing commentary on Mycroft’s alignment, and on his personal choices about that alignment. It was as though nothing either of them did ever drifted far from a horny, demeaning discussion of how low Mycroft would sink when the heat at last took him, and how high Lestrade would rise when he took Mycroft in his time of need. In the end, Alpha and Omega biology seemed to be destiny after all.

“Do you need any help settling in?” Mycroft asked, not as graciously as he’d have hoped.

“Not enough here to bother yourself with.” Lestrade reached out and caressed the false leather of his guitar case. “Where do you want me to practice?” he asked.

“It’s electric, isn’t it? I can’t see it would matter.”

He shook his head. “Hybrid,” he said. “Acoustic with a set of embedded electric pickups. I can’t play silently.” He ducked his head. “You’re letting me stay here for free. If you want I can use some of what I save to get a true electric. Then I can practice silently, and hear myself on headphones.”

Mycroft gave one of his patent diplomatic smles. “No need,” he said. “I like music. But perhaps we should assign the guest room to you as an office and practice room? It’s farther from my own office and bedroom.”

“That leaves you with no guest room, though, yeah?”

Mycroft twitched, and did not point out the obvious—if this went as they currently planned, there was a good chance that soon enough Mycroft and Lestrade would share a bedroom, freeing up one of the bedrooms again. Not that it mattered. For years Mycroft had only had professional guests, and he’d always debated the advantages and disadvantages of putting people up in his own home.

That night he lay in bed, eyes closed, and breathed in deeply. He could smell Lestrade even at a distance. So many nuances to his smell. The scent-chord wasn’t entirely pleasant. There were sour smells of old sweat, in spite of good bathing habits. There was something musky and funky that reminded Mycroft of his few sexual encounters with gay Beta men…encounters that had been so fraught with his fear of being recognized as an Omega that little intimacy beyond the raw sexual act had occurred. Still, he thought he recognized scents that reminded him of semen and saliva and pre-come, and of the dense, warm aroma that had risen from his lovers pubic curls.

In the morning he rose, cleaned for the day, dressed, and went to the kitchen, only to find Lestrade already there in little more than a worn T and a pair of boxers, waiting for the automatic tea-maker to brew up a thermos of tea to take in to work.  He looked warily at Mycroft, who put the electric kettle on the charge plate, preparing to make his own cup of tea.

“You can have a cuppa mine,” he said. Then, as though he already knew Mycroft would decline, he asked, “Sleep well?”

Mycroft smiled—again, his tight professional smile that hid a million things and communicated nothing. “I was fine,” he said—and hoped that over time the lie would become truth.

oOo

“What the hell have you done to yourself?” Sherlock snarled, the first time they encountered each other after Mycroft dropped his medications.

Mycroft shot him a panicked glance. They were in public, in the middle of a security meeting covering home-grown urban terrorists. Sherlock, as a key operative dealing with London’s security, was a vital voice at the meeting—but Mycroft knew that he was capable of stopping everything and turning the assembly into a focus group investigating Mycroft’s sexual alignment and personal life-choices.

He hadn’t thought it showed enough to alert his baby brother. Sherlock, as a mule, had never developed the scope and degree of sensitivity that a properly manifested Alpha could call on. But apparently even the stunted senses he had, and the Beta normal eyesight, combined with his knowledge of his brother and his brilliant analytical skills, were enough to alert him to Mycroft’s change.

Mycroft was relieved when Baby Brother’s eyes narrowed—but his mouth snapped shut. After an intensely hostile glare, Sherlock looked away. His body language assured Mycroft the topic was not closed.

He tried to leave the conference just a bit early, slicing a few minutes off the end of the closing rituals to slip out to his waiting Jaguar saloon. He might as well not have tried. He arrived at the car only to find Sherlock leaning against it. The chauffeur looked out the windshield at Mycroft, and shrugged, face cold and set.

Mycroft scowled, and paced over to the gleaming limo. “You’re determined to interrogate me?”

Sherlock’s face was a mask of angry suspicion. “What are you up to?”

Mycroft opened the back door of the car and slid in. “I couldn’t put the decision off much longer,” he said.

“It’s not your only chance for a family. You may be low-fertility compared to a Beta man, but you can probably impregnate a Beta wife. Especially if you get some help from a fertility clinic.”  Sherlock threw himself into the backward-facing seat of the car, crossing his arms and slumping in the deep leather upholstery.

“Yes. I could.” Mycroft shrugged. “I’m honestly not attracted to Beta women.”

“How would you know?” Sherlock glared at him. “It’s not as distasteful as you might think.”

“If anything it’s less distasteful than most other options,” Mycroft conceded, his nose wrinkling in reflexive discomfort as he considered the realities of heat. “Much less messy. Much less loss of agency for all concerned.”

“So?”

Mycroft looked out the side window, as much to escape Sherlock’s focused attention as out of any interest in the scroll of London architecture and traffic. “Do you ever wonder if there is anything wrong with living a life dedicated to denying what you are?”

Sherlock nearly hissed, he was so furious at the words. “Don’t be stupid.  What you **_are_** is a hormonal slut—a pheromone-driven baby machine willing to crawl and beg for a long, hard fuck from the nearest Alpha stranger so long as he can knot you and make you come--and waken your Omega womb in the process. Compared to that, a thousand lifetimes of suppression can only be seen as an improvement.”

Mycroft sank into his overcoat, cringing at the coarse expression of a coarse truth. He remembered the few juvenile heats he’d endured before going on suppressants at twenty. He’d wanted to go on suppressants after his first heat, minor though it had been, but all the omegologists had assured him and his parents that starting suppressants before his body had reached maturity was as likely as not to reduce Mycroft to mule-status—a chemical eunuch at best, an ill-adapted half-way compromise at worst, suffering all the issues of both Beta men and Omegas, plus an additional load of problems specific to those permanently damaged by suppressants. It wasn’t even as though Mycroft and his parents could argue that there wasn’t enough information to draw a safe conclusion on the outcome. Ever since Churchill had approved the release of the mutational virus into the British populace, there had been parents frantically trying to undo the mutations imposed on their innocent children. Omegologists even in Mycroft’s boyhood had an extensive body of information to draw on—information saturated with tales of failure, despair, suicide and murder.

“You can’t want to do this,” Sherlock said, incredulously, when Mycroft didn’t reflexively snap back.

Mycroft shrugged. “I want to stop passing,” he said. “I want—whatever good thing might come of just being what I am.”

“Nothing. Nothing good can come of what you are,” Sherlock spat. “It was a stupid idea. It should never have been attempted. It’s done more damage to more lives over the past lifetime than anything else that came out of World War Two. It’s warped children in the womb, it’s twisted them into some new, maladapted monster of a subspecies. Suppression is the best option.”

“So you’re just as glad you’re a mule?” Mycroft snapped back.

“Better a mule than a knot-slag,” Sherlock snarled in return. His eyes grew mean, narrowing to slits. “I remember your heats, even if you don’t. I remember. Sobbing. Begging. The slime. The _smell._ Our home smelled like an O-crib, all musk and slick.  It went on forever. You begged like a whore.”

If Mycroft had ever doubted how disgusting he had been in heat, Sherlock’s words and rage stripped away all question.

He could remember it. He could remember the need driving all control from his grasp. It wasn’t like any biological need he’d ever experienced before—not like the need for air, or water, or food. None of them could drive him to any action not directly aimed at his own preferences and desires. Heat, though, wasn’t about what he wanted. It was about what blind genes wanted—to be combined with other blind genes and turned into little babies who were not Mycroft. Heat didn’t care how humiliating it was to need, and want, and writhe, and beg, knowing his entire family knew what was wrong in the bedroom in the upstairs attic. Heat didn’t care about the emotional agony felt by all concerned when his parents went out and bought him toys and videos and books about Omega self-pleasure, in hopes of helping their child through his heats. Heat didn’t care about what it was like to know his body would gladly ruin his life, so long as he surrendered himself to a fertile Alpha and made lots of little mutated babies. Heat didn’t care that a room away a nine-year-old mule was listening to his sixteen-year-old Omega sibling sobbing for a knotting.

The silence built between the two.

The car stopped first at Baker Street. Sherlock hesitated, then opened the door. Once he was out, he leaned back in. “Don’t do it, Mike. You’ll regret it.”

Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes. Instead he said, softly, “I’ve asked Lestrade to move in with me. I hope you will be more polite to him than you’ve been to me.”

Sherlock froze, blue eyes raging. Mycroft could count monkeys as the seconds ticked. At last, with nothing even Sherlock could bring himself to say, the younger slammed the door shut, and stalked away, disappearing into 221 B Baker Street in a swirl of coat-skirts and fury.

Mycroft blinked back tears, noting absently that weeks ago even this tantrum of Sherlock’s could not have forced him to cry. His moods had become erratic since he’d stopped the suppressants. Sometimes the simple sight of a rose in bloom, or the faint sound of children at play could send him grasping for tissues.

When he got home he hid in his office, ignoring Lestrade when he came in. Only when the Alpha knocked and said, “Made dinner if you’re interested” did he give up his solitude and come out.

“I told Sherlock today,” Mycroft said, as he sat on his side of the little kitchen table, looking at a casserole of ham and scalloped potatoes that spoke silently of Lestrade’s lower-class, money-pinched heritage: starchy, filling, mixing plenty of bulk with the most intense flavors available. He took a tentative bite. It was good, tasting of salty ham, sweet onions, sharp cheddar, and earthy potatoes. He took another bite, then looked at Lestrade. “Ah,” he said, then. “I see he went directly over to bother you?”

“Texted,” Lestrade said.

“How bad was it?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Asked if I was satisfied to turn his brother into my Omega cunt. That was just for starters. He couldn’t decide if it was a class thing or an Alpha thing. Either way he was convinced I was looking forward to dragging you as far down in the filth as I could manage.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “He was nine when I had my first heat,” he said. “His room was next to mine.  He might have felt differently if he’d ever manifested as full Alpha. He didn’t, though.”

Lestrade grunted. “His problem,” he said, dismissing it calmly. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

Mycroft shook his head, silent.

“How do you feel about all this?” Lestrade asked.

“All what?” Mycroft knew he was being disingenuous, but he couldn’t bring himself to talk about what his heats had been like—how happy he’d been to go on suppressants. How much more _human_ he had felt when his body no longer begged to be taken and used. Made him beg to be taken and used.

“Heat,” Lestrade said, forging on with the topic. “The whole Alpha-Omega thing. How do you feel? I know how Sherlock feels, but he’s not…” He stopped, his own embarrassment silencing him. After a moment he tried again. “It’s not Sherlock I’ll be knotting, is it?”

Mycroft shook his head, tears leaking from his tight-closed eyes again. “No. No, it’s not Sherlock.”

“So? How do you feel?”

Mycroft forced himself to open his eyes, ignoring the tracked tears racing down his cheeks. He took another fork full of potatoes and ham. “Do you ever resent what they did to us?” he said, veering off topic, though only just.

“All the time,” Lestrade said. “They took…choice. Dignity. Control.”

“Nature, I am told, always did.” Mycroft ate daintily, keeping busy with precise little bites, and frequent sips of water. “Betas insist it’s not that much better for them. Biology is biology.”

Lestrade blew a crude, noisy raspberry. Before he could say more, Mycroft began to laugh—frantic, helpless laughter that rolled and rolled. A second later Lestrade was laughing, too. Two terrified people caught up in the battle-ground humor of the moment, they howled together, clinging to the table, to their chairs, pushing plates aside so they could lay their arms on the table and their heads on their arms.

At last they fell quiet.

“I’m terrified,” Mycroft said into the lazy silence. “The teen heats were bad. Horrible. I have no idea how much worse adult heats are going to be.” He gulped. “I want something good to come out of all this. But I don’t see how it ever does.” He squinched his eyes tight, crying once again—too much, too much, the hormones stealing all stability from him. “Once it’s happened all you’ll ever see when you look at me is a knot-whore,” he said, using Sherlock’s epithet. “A begging Omega slut. A thing you can own and use—who will thank you for it.” His voice was ragged with the fear and shame of it.

Lestrade’s fingers found his hand, wrapped through Mycroft’s fingers. “There’s got to be a way to do it that doesn’t leave me as a fuck-monster and you as a knot-whore,” he said. “Somehow it has to be possible to go in and make it ours, instead of the whole heat-thing making us belong to it.”

Mycroft found himself clinging tight to the strong fingers tangled in his. It was all the hope he had. He nodded, face still hidden in the cradle of his forearms. “Yes,” he said. Then, more firmly, “Yes. We’re not being forced—we’re choosing. Somehow we’ll make that matter, even when the heat comes. You’re not a monster. I’m not a slut.”

Lestrade was quiet for a long time, simply stroking Mycroft’s knuckles. Then, at last, he said, “And wanting sex is not wrong. We can choose it without being ashamed.”

Mycroft shivered. He couldn’t see how. But he held tight anyway. “Promise?”

Lestrade smiled, and risked stroking the cap of dark chestnut-auburn hair. “As good a promise as anyone can make,” he said, “In other words—I’ll try.”

Mycroft laughed, softly. Lestrade  shivered when Mycroft pushed the round curve of his skull into his caressing palm.

It wasn’t much—but it was enough to be getting by with.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This deals with some of the process, and some of the progress, and some of the squick, but more gently and more constructively than last time. It's far kinder and more romantic than the last panicky chapter. Lestrade's POV.

“Here, love, cuppa an’ toast before you go.” Lestrade had laid out a plate and a mug ready for Mycroft, with butter and jam set out and a bowl of fruit ready and tempting. Too much of the time the man…the Omega…Lestrade’s Omega…

He cleared his mind, forcing himself to just consider Mycroft’s face as he came into the kitchen. Blue eyes narrowed, wary and defensive.

“I don’t usually have breakfast,” he said, politely.

“Yeah, but I thought maybe if it was here and ready, you’d _like_ a bit.”

He was given a flash of Mycroft’s most professional, distant smile, but the other did sit at the place laid. Lestrade watched as slim, clever fingers set to work buttering the toast and adding a layer of marmalade. He took a sip from the mug, and offered Lestrade a more genuine smile.

“Good?”

Mycroft nodded. “Good.”

The word sent Lestrade into an emotional tailspin. But, then, everything Mycroft did these days sent him into a tailspin. Week by week Mycroft was more clearly Omega. Week by week Lestrade’s inner Alpha responded. Week by week it was forced home that neither of them knew what to do with the realities of AO interaction. Mycroft was clearly terrified, using decades of behavior developed under suppressants mimicking Beta men to try to maintain some sort of control. Lestrade wasn’t as frightened of the impulses themselves—but he was increasingly frightened that there would be no way to act on those desires without destroying the friendship and good will that lay between them.

His belly growled “my Omega—my Mycroft!” His brain, though, said sensibly that even in heat the inner, core individual that was Mycroft would be horrified to be owned—as an Omega or as himself. Lestrade’s libido surged and growled, attracted to Mycroft’s scent, his body, his increasing Omega cues even before heat. Once heat came, he knew he’d move from mere desire to aching, raging need. It was a need he could escape by retreat, as Mycroft could not—but it would still be need, so long as he remained with Mycroft.

Yet everything he saw, everything he deduced, suggested that Mycroft would find their combined need unbearable.

There were stories of Alphas who woke from what, to them, had been successful heats only to find their bond-mates dead: suicides, unable to live as bonded sexual possessions subject to their own bodies’ betrayal. The stories were true enough. Lestrade had investigated a few. Once—only once—the verdict had been murder, when a criminal-minded Alpha had used the story to cover his own murder of his bond-mate, intending to inherit the other’s wealth now that the mating was concluded. The other times, though, it had been suicide—sad, pitiful, unnecessary suicide. Cut wrists. Pills. Once even the horrifying extreme of drain cleaner… Anything to escape being trapped for life in the indignity of an AO bond.

Lestrade didn’t want that—not for him, and not for…

He closed his eyes, and turned his back on the man eating at the table. Only then did he let himself think the suspect phrase: his Mycroft.

He couldn’t feel otherwise. He’d tried. It was hard-wired in. Every new breath of hormones, every shared meal, every conversation, no matter how trivial, impressed it more strongly on him. This was his Omega, his lover, his Mycroft.

Mine-mine-mine his pulse chanted.

Sometimes he yearned to follow Mycroft through his day, always a step behind, always radiating his own presence, announcing to a dangerous, cruel, greedy world that Mycroft was his Omega, under his care, certain of his protection.

It took enormous discipline to see him leave every day alone. Took enormous will to trust Mycroft and his team to have made Lestrade’s protective presence unnecessary and redundant. He had to accept and believe that Mycroft was safe just as Mycroft, possessed by no one but Mycroft.

“Are you all right?” Mycroft’s voice, often reserved to the edge of offensive indifference, was gentle and concerned. “Stomach ache? Headache?”

“Nah,” he said without turning. “Just a bit off this morning.”

“Here, I’ve poured you some tea,” Mycroft said. “And there’s a piece of toast left.  Have a banana, too. Bananas are supposed to be good for Alphas. Something about hormonal depletion of selenium or something…”

“Later,” Lestrade said. The truth was he’d be hard put to eat anything until he got into the Met bullpen. By then the hormonal reaction to Mycroft would have eased a bit. He could manage the tea, though. He made himself turn and take the cup, glugging it down hot and strong and black. He closed his eyes and sighed as his body responded to the heat and caffeine and hydration. “That’s good, love. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome.”

Mycroft never called him “love.” But, then, Mycroft was posh, and he didn’t have generations of Cockneys on his da’s side and West Country folk on his ma’s to accustom him to the easy, broad use of the words love and lover. Lestrade regretted it, though. He was desperate enough at this point he’d have gone a week on one single friendly “love” out of Mycroft’s mouth.

oOo

“Whotcha, guv! Hooper over at the morgue called up to confirm it’s murder. Put it together with the casework we already did, and we can close.”

“Thanks, Sal. Get it sorted and send it round to me, and I’ll do the final check and sign-off,” he said, smiling at her.

Some people in the Met were bewildered he’d kept her after the fiasco of Sherlock’s apparent suicide. There are always some people who value personal loyalty over loyalty to ideals and principles. Lestrade still felt the sting and panic of realizing she and Anderson had turned on him—but he also remembered the pity he’d felt for them as their case fell apart, and their honest convictions regarding Sherlock had been proved wrong. They’d done what they thought was necessary and right. For that he’d keep Sally at his side for a million years….

Someone had brought in doughnuts, he saw: both raised and cake. He poured himself more tea, grabbed a cinnamon-crumbed cake doughnut, and retreated to his office, leaving the door wide. He pushed his way through paper and files to clear a bit of desk space for his mug and pastry. Then he shucked off his jacket, hanging it over the back of his office chair. Only then did he settle, flicking the computer to life as he sat.

He spent the morning checking emails, responding, filling out paperwork associated with those emails, and closing the case Sally had mentioned. It was a slow day. He was glad of it. One of the things he enjoyed about his job in Major Crimes was the varied pace. It wasn’t like vice or any number of other divisions. His division was elite in the best sense—a criminal had to put some thought and effort in before DI Lestrade was obligated to sit up and take note of him. On slow days when criminals weren’t so very ambitious he could drink tea and clear out correspondence and paperwork, and do some long-range planning for himself and his team. So when he was done with the paperwork in front of him, he leaned out the door and flagged Sally, who was doing her own version of the same quiet administrative work.

“Oi—Sal. Grab a cuppa and some more doughnuts and come brainstorm with me.”

She looked up, smiled, and nodded.

Lestrade retreated into his office, and took a deep breath. He wasn’t sure what he was doing—but he knew it had to be done. When Sally arrived with her tea and four doughnuts, he smiled up at her.

“Shut the door as you come in, eh?”

She arched one fine, high brow. “Now that’s different. What’s up that’s worth the closed door?” She hooked the guest chair with her ankle, pulled it up near the desk, and sat, studying Lestrade the whole time.

He shrugged, then said simply, “I’m involved in a relationship with an Omega. There’s a fair chance I’m going to bond sometime in the next year or so. It’s…different. It’s likely to make some different demands on my life. Gotta make plans so that doesn’t hurt the team, yeah?” He heard his own voice slide up, making the last sentence a true question—hesitant, unsure, seeking support. He’d meant it as a statement, but his own uncertainty betrayed him.

He watched her study him. He’d never hidden his Alpha status—well, it was hard to hide, really. Some people mistook aggressive, macho Beta men for Alphas, but really, it all fell apart when you put one of them beside a sample of the real thing. Even a crazy Alpha radiated a fierce, unwavering fatherly authority and dominance…and there were plenty of crazy Alphas. Sane Alphas like Lestrade could seem like islands of paternal stability in the churning seas of chaos. Sally had always responded well to that—and reacted bitterly when her faith in that stable, wise authority was shattered by inconvenient truths like Sherlock.

“How does it feel?” she asked. “Compared to your marriage. Beta versus Omega—what’s the difference?”

He shrugged and considered her question. After awhile he said, “It’s like the difference between almost on pitch, and dead-on. It’s not hard to respond to a Beta—woman or man. Both have enough in common with an Omega to trigger attraction. But an Omega’s tailor-made. Bespoke-like. And it turns into this slow build. Feeds back and forth; escalates; gains momentum. It was only a shadow of that with my wife, and I loved her.” He met Sally’s eyes. “That’s what’s scary about it, though.” He thought, and said, warily, “You ever get scared when you first started playin’ around with th’ lads? Feel like it was all spinnin’ up too fast, and your own body was pushing you to behave in ways you weren’t sure you wanted—or that weren’t very smart?”

She snorted—a profound, intense reaction leaving little to doubt. “Well, d’oh….”

“Yeah. Ok. Now crank it up to eleven…because that’s what those bastards who made us wanted. They wanted to know that Alphas and Omegas would mate and make little baby Alphas and Omegas, and they didn’t want anything to get in the way of that. So they made both sides fertile with Betas, so they’d lose no opportunities, but they made it damned near desperate to hook up with each other.” He closed his eyes. “Sometimes it hurts. Not just a figure of speech—it hurts.”

She frowned. “Don’t really think of it that way.”

“No.” His voice went grim. “If you’re a Beta you think of macho Alphas like elk or bulls, pawing and panting and grabbing ass. You think of knot-slut Omegas crawling around begging for it—gagging for it. Yeah?”

She shrugged, embarrassed. “Maybe tone it down a bit….but…yeah.”

He pulled a sour face. “Don’t feel too bad. We think of ourselves that way a lot, too. Can’t help it—we grew up with all of it shoved in our faces. Beta norms. AO realities. Pile them all together in your teens and you come up with a sick picture.”

“And it doesn’t have to be?”

He drew a ragged breath, and ducked his head. “Sorry,” he said, gruffly. “I’m afraid you caught part of the speech I’m gonna have to give my…the…give him. He’s pretty scared.”

“Never done it before? You robbing the cradle?”

“No. He’s been passing. Lifetime of suppressants. And if anyone’s robbing anything, well—he approached me.”

“That’s one hell of a sign of faith, guv… He may not be so scared he needs all of your speech, yeah? Just a bit of it?” She smiled—it was something sweet, and kind, and wild: the smile of a daughter giving her widowed da her blessing to start courting again. “So. You’ve got a sweetie. What’s it likely to do to you professionally?” She switched the topic cleanly, without embarrassment.

He nodded approval. “Gotta be available for heats—and after a lifetime of suppressants it’s going to take forever for them to fall into a stable schedule. And—I’m likely to bond. That means things like hours and transfers and stuff are going to have more effect than even on a marriage. I’ll be less able to just give myself to the team.”

She nodded. “Ok. So—on the one hand, we need to pull in a few more skilled hands, to help me when I need to stand in for you. And on the other…guv, maybe it’s time to look at accepting the next DCI spot that presents itself. Long-term it’s a more stable position for a family man, you know? Less street time, less risk, more regular hours.”

He made another face. “Like working DI,” he said, grumpily.

She chuckled. “Surly bastard, yeah? But you gotta think about it. Meanwhile, I’ve been watching Averez over in Dimmock’s team. He’s as good as Felix, but Felix isn’t ready to move into a DI spot, and Dimmock doesn’t need another DS. But maybe we should pull him. Him and a couple of seasoned constables would put me in a sweet spot when you’re gone, and provide a lot of versatility even when you’re here. Make me senior DS, and go from there. Like it?”

He smiled. “Like it. I’ll start the paperwork today.”

She nodded, and rose, collecting her mug. “Ta, then.” She started for the door, but then turned back. “This Omega…you like him? I mean, not just with your nose and your raging Alpha hormones: you really like him?”

He felt frozen like a deer in the gaze of her dark eyes. He drew a shaky breath. “Worked with him on and off for near a decade,” he said. “Liked him the whole time, even without knowing he was Omega. Thought I’d faint when he outted himself.” He swallowed, and added, huskily, “Don’t know why I didn’t when he said he’d been watching me for years…that the only reason he was risking coming out was for me.” The shiver that took him had to be visible on the other side of the room. “It’s…” he looked at her, aware of his own plea for understanding. “I…Sal… You don’t grow up Alpha without knowing you can be one scary damned bastard. You know? And you know you can be one selfish sonofabitch, too. I’ve always tried to be better than that. But after the divorce… You don’t know what it meant to have him, of all people, say he’d come out for me.”

Her face went still, then flared with passion. “Good on him” she growled—a light alto rumble. “Good on the bastard, and good luck to you both. And guv—you deserve it. You understand? You’re what an Alpha should be. I’m glad the bastard who’s getting you knows it.” Then she spun and was gone, closing the door behind her once more, as though she knew he’d need time alone now, before he went out and faced the regulars once more.

oOo

Mycroft didn’t get home until late that night—Lestrade was home for hours before. He played guitar, drank some of Mycroft’s good scotch. He showered and dressed in soft, comforting jogging trousers and a worn T. He put together a pasta sauce, filled a big pasta pot with a built-in insert, then put both on a low burner, waiting until he and Mycroft could eat it together.

He studied Mycroft’s home—read the backs of the books, touched the soft, supple leather that upholstered the chairs and sofa. He picked out CDs to play, amused that Mycroft continued to purchase hard copies of his music that he then copied to MP3 format. Trust Mycroft to want to have a permanent master as backup.

He could always tell when Mycroft wasn’t there—while the scents lingered, they lingered cool, like ghosts, lacking the lively changing personality of Mycroft’s living scent. When the door opened at last, and Mycroft’s personal odor rolled in ahead of him, Lestrade felt himself come alive in response. He smiled.

“Made dinner,” he said. “Just spag-bol, but I do a good sauce. Can make the noodles whenever you’re ready.”

Mycroft smiled back—it always shook Lestrade when the other gave him one of his authentic smiles. “Thank you. It’s been a brute of a day.”

“We all get ‘em,” Lestrade said. “Pour you a scotch?”

“Tea would be even better,” Mycroft said. “If you can make a pot while I shower?”

So Lestrade puttered in the kitchen, listening to the roar of the shower. He turned on the pasta water, turned the sauce up just enough to be seriously warm, and started a kettle. He thought about how it felt to live here—far beyond his natural class, far beyond his economic standing, but somehow safe and secure in the luxurious rooms on Pall Mall.

Alphas protect; Omegas nurture. He wasn’t honestly sure he knew the difference. He had seen Mycroft protect Sherlock—a ferocious, determined action that grew out of profound love of his abrasive brother. How was that different from his own growing desire to protect Mycroft? How was his longing to do something—anything—to make Mycroft feel at ease and at home in his presence any different from Mycroft’s own desire to provide Lestrade with all the comforts and luxuries he was able to provide?

He didn’t know.

He wasn’t even sure what to call it. After a long, failed marriage, he was desperately tempted to call it love, but was haunted by the fear it was only hormones.

Mycroft came out dressed in soft cotton pajamas under a sleek paisley smoking jacket of burgundy and sand, flecked with glowing details in peacock blue and crimson and gold. “Smells good.”

“Is good.” Lestrade smiled; he longed for the rising hope to show in his expression. “Sit down. Let me serve you some.”

Mycroft sat, and was soon eating happily. Lestrade told him about his day—including his discussion with Sally.

“Good heavens,” Mycroft murmured. “You’re one up on me. I suppose I should have much the same conversation with Anthea. They know I’ve gone off the suppressants, and that I’m…” he paused, groping for words, then said, “They know I’m courting. But I hadn’t extended that to work issues. I should.”

“You will,” Lestrade said, smiling. “You’re not one to leave it undone.” He took a breath, then, and said, “How scared are you—of all this?”

Mycroft didn’t meet his eyes, but he did say, “Totally terrified,” as he stirred the tines of his fork through the remains of the spag-bol.

Lestrade nodded. “Thought so.” He took a deep breath, and said. “I was thinking. I mean—how much of it is not knowing anything about it? I mean beyond anything you did before you went off the meds?”

Mycroft looked up, brows arching in silent question.

“I mean—it’s not like we have to start with heat,” Lestrade said, knowing he was blushing and unable to stop it. “It’s not even like we can’t do…well…everything…before we have to count heat in. Would it be easier if you knew….” He couldn’t keep on.

He watched Mycroft’s face. The microexpressions flittered, arriving and fleeing so quickly, so modestly. Only the pink of embarrassment was stable. “I don’t know,” he said, sounding shaken. “It never occurred to me…”

Lestrade nodded. “Talking to Sal today, I remembered how much being with my wife was like being with the two Omegas I’ve been with, and how much it was different, and how much more I knew with her than with them. I thought maybe…things aren’t as frightening if you know a bit about them.”

“I wouldn’t know where to start,” Mycroft said, face now crimson. He had hunched into his elegant smoking jacket. His forelock, just beginning to dry from the shower, fell in an unruly spill over his brows. Lestrade wanted to stroke it back.

Instead he said, “I can show you where to start.”

Mycroft’s mouth quirked—that tiny, sudden smile that shook Lestrade to the core. “Experienced, manly Alpha?”

“Just offering.”

“I don’t know how far I’ll be comfortable going.”

“That’s fine.”

Mycroft stood and gathered his dishes and Lestrade’s, putting them in the dishwasher. Lestrade, knowing better than to push, cleaned out the sauce pan and put away the leftover sauce and noodles. He put the pots in the sink to soak, knowing Mycroft’s char would take care of them the next day.

As he added a squirt of dish soap Mycroft moved behind him.  A second later the man’s hand lay, flat and gentle in the center of his back, between his shoulder blades.

“I think I’d like that,” Mycroft said, hesitantly.

Lestrade grunted agreement. “Yours or mine?” he asked.

“Sitting room?” Mycroft said, voice still uncertain. “I’ll feel less like I’ve promised anything.”

Lestrade nodded, and turned where he stood, putting his hands lightly on Mycroft’s shoulders. “No worries,” he said, and leaned in gently to kiss Mycroft…his Omega lover.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First advances. Mischief accomplished...... XD
> 
> This chapter earns the "mature" rating I gave it. I don't think it's all that explicit, but--well. Different people have different standards. There is naming of parts, and discussion of sensations associated therewith. It just doesn't get down in the jello-wrestling vat and describe individual globs of lime-green goo.

“No!”

Mycroft boiled off of Lestrade’s lap, pulling his smoking jacket tight around him. Tighter—as though the press and pull of the fabric could still the shudders that shook him.

Lestrade froze in place, clearly fighting a reflexive impulse to come up from the sofa and pull Mycroft to him—touch him, soothe him, possess him…

Mycroft closed his eyes, gasping at the conflicting extremes of his own reactions.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry….I….I…” He trailed off, unable to find words to say what he needed to say.

“Shhhhh,” Lestrade said. Mycroft could tell he was trying for the calm, easy tones of a beat cop facing off a sloppy drunk or a terrified child or a couple drowning in the passions of a nasty domestic. He wasn’t succeeding, though. His own voice was ragged and uneven, the passions of mere second before still coloring his inflections, along with the frustration and, yes, anger at Mycroft’s sudden frantic retreat. “Shhh, Mycroft….’s all right. Not going to make you do anything.”

A thousand tells in his voice assured Mycroft he was telling the truth. A thousand tells assured him equally that Lestrade’s Alpha didn’t give a damn what Lestrade promised.

Which he could have dealt with, were it not for the tempest that had swept over his own inner Omega.

He took a long, slow breath, fighting to settle the storm inside. When he thought he had at least a little control, he said, “I can’t do that. I…it’s like being possessed. Like something filthy’s taken over my mind, and all I can do is scream in the corner while it…” He licked his lips. He wanted to say, “While it degrades me.” He wasn’t sure he could say that—he wasn’t sure Lestrade would even understand.

It had felt so good….

They’d settled easily onto the sofa. The lights had been off. They’d found each other by touch, by sound, by logic. Mycroft had allowed Lestrade to draw him close. They’d nuzzled, each drawing in the pheromone-laden scent of the other. It had felt like relaxing into a hot tub, the resistance slipping away, the pleasure taking over. Lestrade had initiated a kiss, and Mycroft had responded first shyly, then more passionately.

It was his first kiss, barring the chaste familial kisses of his parents and sibling, or the drab diplomatic kisses exchanged at various meetings, symposiums, conferences, and political celebrations, when man and woman alike indulged in air kisses and ginger embraces in the name of political good will. Mycroft had experienced sex, but never with anyone he could have considered an intimate—and between his own fears of being outted as an Omega, and the rough-and-ready nature of the sex, kissing had never been on the table.

He’d found Lestrade’s kiss amazing—a revelation. The Alpha had been slow and gentle, inviting, not pillaging—and in his restraint, he’d still pillaged. Mycroft didn’t know how to think about it—didn’t even know how to feel it…but that kiss had set insanity stirring in his blood, making his hair rise, his pulse stagger and race, his stomach coil and churn with excited nausea. It had sent a message straight to his cock and his arse, both suddenly afire with a tension and a sensitivity he’d never experienced before except in dreams and rare self-indulgent fantasy in his teens, before he went on the suppressants. How could a kiss instantly take command of his cock, make it swell and stir, make it beg for contact? How could a kiss make his arse crimp and flex, as though it was a separate being, with a separate mind and separate desires and a scheme of its own it intended to see fulfilled? How could a kiss make his body rise up in rebellion against him? And how could that rebellion feel so horrible and so sweet at the same time?

He’d made himself hold fast, determined. Lestrade had offered such a clever, sensible option—Mycroft was embarrassed not to have thought of it himself. He had no excuse, aside from a lifetime of avoidance.

He’d fought back a tiny smile as he recognized the stupidity of his own self-reproach. Yes, a lifetime of avoidance explained a certain degree of self-imposed blindness. He’d steeled his spirit, and assured himself the whole point was to feel these things now, before heat spiraled them beyond his control. He’d hummed softly, drifting in the sensual current of the kiss. Lestrade had drawn him and shifted him, until their crotches butted against each other. He could feel the heavy arch as Lestrade’s cock filled and rose—so much larger than his own. Lestrade had made a small, inarticulate sound and rocked. The scent of roused Alpha had swamped the room, filling Mycroft’s sinuses, filling his blood with chemical madness. Even as his passion rose, Mycroft felt the first stab of panic. This wasn’t his choice. It wasn’t like other things in his life. His hand didn’t move without his clear choice. His mouth didn’t eat without his decision. Even hunger could be held at bay, at least to the point true starvation became an issue.

This though: it was like pain and illness, beyond his control, possessing him.

Lestrade’s hands slid up his flanks, fingers trailing, counting ribs, until they came to his wide, flat breasts, fuller now than they’d been mere weeks before. Fingers found Mycroft’s nipples, and everything he’d felt before paled to the vast orchestral chord that rose in him.  It wasn’t that he’d never felt anything like it—felt anything that took his whole body from him and took command, snatching his reactions out of his control to send back skirling, frenzied sensual compositions to harmonize with Lestrade’s touch. He’d felt this before—louder, harsher, more frantic, but the same music. He could count the events, starting with his first heat at sixteen and ending with his final once just after he turned twenty—the last he’d had to suffer before he went on suppressants.

Not that he thought anything so clear or coherent. He couldn’t think. He could feel. He could respond. He was like a wild mustang caught between not one, but two riders—desire and terror, both lashing him with whips and jabbing him with spurs. He wanted to touch, to lean in, to explore. He wanted to run, and keep running, until he dropped in exhaustion too tired to feel desire.

Lestrade had wrapped himself in his own arms in the seconds since Mycroft scrambled away. Even in the dim light cast from the kitchen, Mycroft could see the humped tent of his trousers and imagine the heavy Alpha cock aching behind the soft fleece of his jogging trousers. He shook…

“I’m sorry,” Mycroft said, his mind beginning to return. “Oh, God, I’m sorry. It wasn’t you. I swear, it wasn’t you.”

Lestrade gasped, deep and hard—then the release came in a shout of laughter. “No, no, no…I know. Not me…” he giggled and sniggered as he got the words out. Tears of laughter seeped from his eyes. “Of bloody fucking hell. Need a shower, love. Need to wank…..this hurts…”

Mycroft couldn’t imagine feeling free enough to even say it. He could, however, imagine what it would be like for Lestrade to have to bring himself off alone in the cold light of the bathroom, in the impersonal shower stall. He swallowed hard, and said, cautiously, “I…I can do that part. If you’d like.”

Lestrade caught his breath, laughter dying. “What?”

“That part—I can do that for you.”

“It doesn’t upset you?”

Mycroft shrugged and found the first trace of a smile stretching his lips. “No. At least it won’t unless I find it so arousing as to rob me of my intellect. It’s the feeling of being robbed of myself that…” He stopped, trailing of, and shrugged again, helpless. “I meant it—it feels like being possessed by something that isn’t me. Like I’m shoved in the corner and something else, something dangerous and filthy, has my body. It’s different touching you. I like it, but it’s all my choice. I can even enjoy it.” He smiled more fully. “Well?”

Lestrade studied him, his dark eyes giving nothing away as he weighed what Mycroft had said. Mycroft was forced to recall that Lestrade was considered one of the best detective the Met had, and that was without Sherlock’s help. Sherlock considered Lestrade one of the best…After a moment he nodded, and made room beside him again.

Mycroft slid into place, nestling close. He took Lestrade’s hands, not willing to grant them free access again—but then he leaned in and initiated his own kiss, as gentle and undemanding as Lestrade’s had been. He could feel the other man debating, then melting into it—but with a hesitation that hadn’t been there before.

Mycroft kept the kiss live, but let go Lestrade’s hands, letting his own drift over his partner. He was simply dressed in the jogging trousers and a T, both worn and washed to supple softness.

Lestrade felt good under his hands, though Mycroft wasn’t sure what to compare the sensation to. His Beta lovers had been such fleeting encounters, with no real exploration happening at all. He couldn’t easy compare their bodies to Lestrade’s. But to him, Lestrade felt like a fine hunting hack—solid muscle, sturdy bone, in condition. He felt like a hunting hound that spent hours coursing game at a steady, untiring lope. He felt like the firm flesh of a salmon caught on a fly and played in to shore. It was a clean, joyful sensation, of a body that did what it was supposed to do, and did it well.

Mycroft traced his fingers over Lestrade’s tiny nipples. “Like that?”

“Mmm. Probably not as much as you do—but it’s good. No worries.”

Mycroft nodded, and returned to the kiss. His hands lingered awhile at Lestrade’s nipples, but then continued down, looking for more rewarding targets. As his fingers crept near Lestrade’s drawstring waistband, he could smell the surge of hormones.

His inner Omega answered, but this time it was muted, softer. He was in control. He paused, running his fingertips under Lestrade’s waistband—back, forth; back, forth. He felt his hair rise up and prickle his scalp with aware desire.

“You all right?” Lestrade gasped.

“Mmmmm. Exploring. Experimenting. This is different than before. I don’t feel taken captive—raped by my own response.”

There was a moment’s silence, then Lestrade asked, “You have a response?” His voice was hesitant—and longing.

Mycroft nodded, frowning as he analyzed his own reaction. “Yes. Strong, too. Just not…obliterating.”

Lestrade murmured something incoherent. Mycroft thought it was intended to be reassuring and supportive—mainly it was breathy and hungry and hopeful. Then Lestrade said, “You can keep on, now, you know…”

Mycroft chuckled.  “In my own good time,” he said, but let his fingers finally pass beyond the boundary defined by Lestrade’s waistband. He crept his fingers, spider-like, down the thin trail of hair leading from Lestrade’s navel to his pecker.

Mycroft explored, frowning even as he kissed and touched.

Big. Very thick, though not unusually long. Harder than Mycroft recalled his Beta lovers being—almost like hard tyre rubber in arousal. At the base he could feel the currently spongy ring of flesh that would expand out into a solid knot during rut, locking the two of them together.

The thought shook him, raising a frisson of fear again.

“What’s wrong?” Lestrade, even as he panted and pushed against Mycroft’s hand, was still paying attention to his lover’s little tells.

Mycroft buried his face against Lestrade’s shoulder. “It’s…unnerving. To think of being trapped, tied together by knotting. Like being captive and bound in a dangerous situation.”

Neither said more for a moment. The truth was, knotting in a mating gone wrong was just that, and it had ended more than once in tragedy. Lovers killed each other trying to escape—and more than one Alpha cock had been cut short by one partner or another so frantic to get away that castration seemed preferable to patience. Even in less extreme situations it was far from unusual to hear about skin tears, rips in the anal sphincter, bruising, and more.

Lestrade’s press against Mycroft’s hand had slowed—but not stopped. Mycroft tickled and caressed, fingers easing down Lestrade’s foreskin and sliding over the polished, sleek head of his shaft.

“Knob and knot,” he said, under his breath, smiling a little. It was common parlance for an Alpha’s genitals. “Knob, knot and nuts.”

“All present and accounted for.” Lestrade sounded smug. Mycroft snorted—it wasn’t something that made all that much sense to sound smug about, but he couldn’t help but grin at Lestrade’s pleased little gloat.

They were settling back into arousal again, easing into it—tiptoeing up on it, afraid to lose it but equally afraid to let it run wild. Lestrade shifted, pushed, and eventually eased Mycroft until he rode the strong arch of Lestrade’s thigh. He didn’t say anything, fearful to take any greater risk of making Mycroft feel like he’d lost control of the situation.

Mycroft rocked, tentatively. He could feel it—feel it all through him, in fizzy bubbles of excitement and deeper, darker surges of need. He tested his mind against them, and shivered. The ghost of his earlier terror lurked, but didn’t come out from the shadows. He rocked more firmly.

“Good?” Lestrade whispered.

“Good…”

Lestrade’s arms slipped around his waist, and Lestrade’s cock slipped in and out of his firm fist. “Not filthy,” he said, his voice cheerful and shameless. “Maybe a bit naughty. No more. ‘S good…”

Mycroft, exploring his own response for the first time without compete shame and terror, didn’t answer.

The argument of opposites continued inside him. He could feel his bum grow moist and slippery—an unsettling sensation that was exaggerated by his own reflexive pulse and grip, in rhythm with his own rocking motion.

He wasn’t out of control, though. He didn’t feel the same complete helplessness he’d felt earlier.

He studied his own enjoyment.

No, he thought, it’s not filthy. He considered some more, and added to himself, Sexy. This is sexy. I’m allowed to like this. I can want it, and I don’t have to be ashamed…

He stretched his spine and leaned his head against Lestrade’s, seeking the man’s ear. He whispered, “I think I can manage this through to the expected release, if you like.”

Lestrade pushed against him, panting. “I like…” Then, after a second, he said, “Stay as we are?”

“Mmmm. It’s working and I’m not panicking. Seems like a good idea not to risk that right now.”

Lestrade nodded, his short-cropped hair tickling Mycroft’s nose.

Later Mycroft thought it was like the sweep of darkness as sunset came and passed, and night rose triumphant. Or like rising from a dive in a deep lake, coming at last to float effortlessly at the top, eyes squeezed tight against the glare of sky and water. Or like the easy tumble into sleep when exhausted. The pheromones flooded the room, Lestrade’s prick filled his hand, his own cock stropped against Lestrade’s thigh, and the desire and response rose and rose, in easy, lazy surges, until he drew a deep breath and submerged in need. Then he was under the surface of it, swimming, his body surging with the need to kick and kick and kick, until he rose again at the surface, gasping and alight with his own climax, just in time to watch Lestrade fall into his own ecstasy.

He was beautiful. Horrible, raw, uncensored, sweating, red—beautiful. He clung to Mycroft, holding him tight, unable to let go, and Mycroft thought of the lock of a knot, and was able to smile for the first time ever. He could wait this out. He could even enjoy this, knowing he’d be freed again, in time.

They were silent for a long time after. The moon had risen high before Lestrade said, warily, “Heat will be worse. You know that—we’re going to have to work hard to get to where you feel secure riding that wave the way you rode this one.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft knew his voice was petulant. He couldn’t help it. He didn’t want to think about heat. He wanted to think about his first real climax—his first real sex with his first real lover. His first time feeling he’d accomplished sex, rather than merely enduring it. It was, for the first time, something he’d done, not something done to him. Something he’d owned, not something stolen from him.

Apparently Lestrade was willing to let it go. He chuckled, and buried his face in Mycroft’s sternum, snuffling up the smell of arousal and release. Mycroft could sense his happiness.

He ran his hand over the velvet crop of silver-dapple hair. He could already feel part of himself begging to retreat, to establish his boundaries again, reclaim his body’s isolated safe zones. But for now, for a brief moment, he allowed himself to enjoy what he had—touch and scent and shared relationship. Right now he was not “himself”, but a fraction of an “us” formed by him and by Lestrade together. He didn’t entirely like it—but he didn’t entirely not-like it, either. Both feelings wove in and out, first one then the other.

At last he could endure it no more. He kissed Lestrade’s cheek. “It went well,” he said, knowing his voice had returned to the even, professional tones of his daily life. “It was a splendid idea. We should do it again soon.” Even as he spoke, he rose, pulling his smoking jacket back around himself. “I’m going to have a second shower,” he said. “I’m planning on a scotch after, if you’d like to join me.”

Lestrade looked up at him and smiled a small, faintly regretful smile—but he nodded. “Not going to turn down a dram of your good stuff,” he said, and then he rose, too, and retreated to his own bathroom.

All in all, Mycroft thought, considering, their experiment had been a great success.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Focuses on process, and on the hard work of adjusting to changes--and of honesty. Shrinks are involved, but so are our Heroes...and so is a lot of courage and love. I hope you will all accept the utility of this chapter, even if it's not as sexy as the previous one.

“This one, sir,” Anthea said firmly, pushing a chubby manila folder toward Mycroft. “She’s tops, and I’ve checked her every way I can think of. It’s not hype, or PR spin, or an entertaining fiction. She’s just a good counselor, and she specializes in sexual trauma and in AO relations. She’ll work with you and the Inspector together and separately, though she’s likely to refer one of you to your own specialist to ensure you both have someone who’s there just for you. I’ve included files on the people she most often recommends, along with the rest.”

Mycroft studied the folder, brooding. He’d always tested “sane enough” for MI6—which made compromises because the kind of work it required and the kind of people who did that work did not make perfect sanity an option. But he’d been sane enough. Pumped rock solid with a suppressant cocktail, passing as a Beta man, he’d been sane. Now, reverting to his actual Omega self he was crazy? Crazy enough to need a counselor?

He grimaced. “You’re sure this isn’t some kind of anti-Omega bigotry?”

Anthea sighed, exasperated. “Yes, sir. I’m sure, sir. It’s sense, just like when we make agents who’ve been in a shootout get extra counseling. Some kinds of life events just push buttons, sir. I think perhaps changing gender in mid-stream and entering into sexual relations for the first time might qualify, even leaving the hormone surges out of the equation?” Her words were tart, and her inflections bitingly humorous, but her eyes were kind enough…

Mycroft sighed and pulled the file across the desk, flipped it open, and nodded. “Very well, then. And thank you. You’ve saved me a difficult task.”

“Yes, I have,” she said, pertly. “You should consider a raise for me.”

He arched a brow at her. “You’re already at the top of your allowed pay scale.”

“Then promote me a level.”

“You’d have to change divisions,” he said. “Your next step up the ladder would be command of a minor section. Do you want the promotion?”

She considered, cocking her head, then said, “Not…yet. Not yet, sir. I still have things to learn from you.”

“You always will. That’s how it works. All the time you’re learning…so am I.”

“Mmmmm.”

“Someday I’ll take it out of your hands and promote you in spite of yourself, you know.”

She nodded, but grinned mischievously. “Yes, sir. But…not yet. Not quite yet.”

They shared the moment. She was right, of course. He no more wanted to lose his best second officer than she wanted to leave a sympathetic, supportive, and helpful mentor. And while she’d never admit it, she found his current life drama fascinating. False Beta man to Omega, in a matter of months—the shift was profound, and educational.

Mycroft thought about it as he left the office. He knew perfectly well he was an object of fascination to those few coworkers close enough to know what was going on. He couldn’t blame them. Even he could see the drama and intrigue of the change.

He’d managed to maintain his emotional calm at work, but even that had changed. He had to work harder at it, and the result was understandably harsher and less fluid. It frightened him—Omegas were known for their emotional, empathic qualities, and those who failed to show them were often regarded as monstrous in their own right—the category of the Bitch Queen Omega had pushed the stereotype of Ice Queen Beta female right off the stage, so completely that even in largely closed Beta communities people really didn’t think of it often. Betas expected their males and females to blur the extremes of sexual identity now, if only because Alphas and Omegas had so completely fulfilled those stereotypes.

But that meant if he couldn’t find his way back to something warmer, he’d be increasingly seen by his people in negative terms far more damaging than his former aura of cool, reserved, but reasonable pseudo-Beta. Yes, those who worked with him had known he was a suppressed Omega—but beyond that they had accepted him as they found him, and taken his role as a given. Mycroft Holmes—psuedo-Beta gay male.

Not for the first time he was grateful he worked in intelligence and espionage. In another area of work he’d have been tempted to actually pass. In this, though, he’d known going in he had to confess to his standing from the very beginning. There were too many background checks, physical examinations, and probing interviews and reviews in just the first months for him to feel confident of passing as a Beta. He would be discovered. It was better by far to be admired for his honesty than despised for his naïve attempts to fool professional information-gatherers.

The career-long reputation for sensible honesty was standing him in good stead, now. His few superiors and observers were regarding his shift as just a thing—one of those ordinary things you might expect of a passing Omega in middle years, who had begun to yearn for all the things he’d once set aside.

Ordinary. He scoffed, softly, as his fingers flicked through the heaps of hard copy. He made a face. He knew Anthea had also compiled all the information in digital form, and sent it to his accounts—including his private account. But she was clever, and manipulative, and she knew he could go months pretending to be unaware of digital information. Hard copy shoved over the top of his desk? Harder. Much harder….especially as they both knew Lestrade would prefer the hard copy.

He picked the file up and placed it in his briefcase. He stood, and prepared to leave, gathering his coat and umbrella and…yes…the attaché case. He closed up the office, letting it lock behind him.

“I’m off,” he said. “Is Jules ready?”

She nodded. “You don’t want to walk?”

“Good heavens, no.”

She cocked her head. The weather was pleasant, and he was known to occasionally choose the short walk from Whitehall to Palll Mall on days like this.

He shook his head.

He didn’t tell her that these days when he walked down the sidewalk alone, he felt Alpha eyes on him—recognized the signs of Alphas scenting him. There weren’t many along Pall Mall. Not all that many Alphas rose high enough professionally to have business that far into the bureaucratic downtown. It didn’t take many, though.

It only took one or two to ruin his walk. Once there had been a rough, out of work Alpha, who’d probably ended up either chivvied out of the region or in a jail cell, but who’d been leaning against the elegant classical façade of a men’s club, taking in the warm sunshine and rolling a cigarette. His eye had passed over Mycroft, shifted away—then returned. His nostrils had flared.

Mycroft, always alert and aware, had noted the entire process, and felt his stomach tighten. He forced himself to maintain his calm, meeting the man’s eyes and looking easily away. He knew he had bodyguards nearby, following him. He always did. He was safe. Even discounting the bodyguards, he was a trained agent. He could fight if he had to. He could kill. The odds were he could drop the Alpha before he’d even gathered himself to attack. But the man’s stare as Mycroft came down the walkway still set his hair upright, prickling his forearms and the nape of his neck.

As he came close, the Alpha’s eyes narrowed, and he licked his lips, then began a steady murmur.

“Nice, yeah. Yeah—you’re nice. Top drawer Omega bitch, yeah? Want it, don’t you?” He produced a long string of kissing noises, like an old woman calling a cat, then murmured, “Here, puss-puss-puss-pussy. Come to Daddy, sweetness. I’ll give you want you want…” He reached out toward Mycroft, fingers ready to stroke and grab.

Mycroft dodged away, choosing evasion over confrontation. The Alpha swore, then, and lunged, and Mycroft shifted, grabbed one dirty wrist, and twisted. Before he had to do more two hulking Alpha agents arrived, scowling, to take over.

He let go, panting. He felt—dirty, somehow. Not victorious, though logic told him he’d won a real victory. Instead, though, he felt demeaned—degraded.

Sometimes even weeks later, out of the blue, he’d hear it echoing in the perfect, precise memories of his mind palace—the wet kiss-kiss-kiss, and the rough, gloating voice calling, “Here, puss-puss-puss-pussy.”

If he were not Mycroft Holmes, if he had not had training going back for years, if he had not been trailed by two capable and loyal Alpha males, what would have happened? He thought he’d have escaped—it was hard to kidnap a man in a three-piece bespoke on Pall Mall, unless you had a limo and a getaway driver. But he would not escape before the Alpha had pawed him, groped him, touched him against his will. And if he had not had training, and guards, no one would have thought much of it. If he’d protested many would have criticized him for making a scene.

He was changing. His body was changing. He’d even seen strange Betas look, look again, and recognize him as Omega. Few could—the differences were hard to detect without added senses of Alpha and Omega mutations. But some had the eye to recognize the subtle changes in motion and physique.  Now Mycroft knew he’d changed enough to be evident to those with an eye to see, a nose to smell, a sense of motion, a feel for balance and leverage.

He was an Omega, now.

oOo

Lestrade wasn’t sure what to say when Mycroft brought home the manila folder on the AO shrink. It set up a battle in his mind.

He came from a class that regarded the whole AO issue as halfway between dirty and magnificent—especially if you were an Alpha. He was blue collar by birth and upbringing, of a class that admired a man for his swagger and power. Lestrade had avoided fights—but he’d learned early that his body, his movement, the clear note of his presence, could help or hinder that goal. He’d learned to make it help. He’d learned how to announce his dominance—and how to convey that dominance in ways people found comforting and reassuring.

It wasn’t a Brixton thing to see a shrink, much less to see a shrink about being a successful Alpha. It wasn’t a _cop_ thing to see a shrink. It wasn’t an Alpha thing to see a shrink about sex. Part of him reflexively classified the entire issue as one of Mycroft’s screwed up Omega things—the trauma and the hormones and the pure idiotic tendency to make difficult what could have been easy.

A lot of Alphas would have left it there, regardless of where they came from or what they did. For that matter, a lot of people, regardless of alignment or class, would have left it at that—or gone along to humor the crazy Omega.

Mycroft had chosen well, though—he’d chosen a better person than that.

Lestrade made himself pull the file close. He flipped it open and pulled out the brief on Dr. Bangash. He read the first paragraphs, frowning sullenly, then made himself stop. He went out to the kitchen and made a full flask of tea. He collected a plate of ginger biscuits. He went back out to the sitting room with his booty, settled in a corner of the sofa, and stopped, consciously setting aside his own personal mind set, and seating himself in his professional DI’s frame of reference. He had to read this for facts and not for sentiment or sulky pride.

He worked his way through the file. Anthea had included a sheaf of pages providing links to auxiliary sites. He dug in his pocket and drew out his smart phone, and started pulling up the additional information. When he was done his tea was gone, and there were only a few crumbs left of the ginger nuts. He stood and stretched, and walked down the central corridor of the flat to Mycroft’s bedroom.

“You read it?” Mycoft asked. He was sprawled on his own bed, dressed in cotton pajamas with his laptop on his lap.

“Yes. Remind me to steal Anthea for the Met. She does good work. Sal and I could use her services.”

“Hands off—she’s mine,” Mycroft said, primly. “I found her, I trained her, and you’re not getting her. So—you think Bangash is a reasonable choice?”

Lestrade sat heavily at the foot of the bed. He leaned his elbows on his knees, letting his hands fall between his thighs. He sighed. “I’ll admit, given my own preferences I’d rather just go it alone. We’ve been doing well, yeah? But…” he raised his head and met Mycroft’s eyes. “Anthea really is good. It’s more than just what it looks like on the surface, isn’t it?”

Mycroft grimaced, and Lestrade found himself smiling in spite of the weight of their conversation. There was something infectiously appealing about Mycroft’s puckish face, all strong curves and angles—long, beaky nose, curved cheeks, high forehead. As an Omega he was spared pattern baldness, and his forelock fell heavily over his brows at night, after he’d shampooed the gel out of his hair. When he made faces, met Lestrade’s eyes with a crooked smile, rolled his eyes—Lestrade loved him.

It was that simple, he thought. He hadn’t really expected to end up there, but it was true. He’d gone along with Mycroft’s original proposition because he’d always liked and admired the other man—but most of all because he’d hungered for someone to love him. He hadn’t entirely expected to ever love Mycroft back in return.

He didn’t know how much of it was Omega hormones and Alpha instincts. He wasn’t sure he cared. He only knew when the clever red-haired gnome grinned at him in rueful dismay, his heart ticked over an extra beat.

He smiled at his lover. “I say we try,” he said. “I trust Anthea to have found someone good. I think I’d like to be the one with a separate shrink, though. Anthea flagged Dr. Lu as particularly good. Maybe we can go in with the assumption that we’ll try him first and see if it’s a good fit?”

Mycroft nodded, then said, softly, “Thank you. I know it can’t be easy. I feel a bit of a fool myself. But Anthea was right—I need to do it to meet departmental regulations in any case, and---and it’s not a stupid regulation.”

“Of course it’s not.” Letrade chuckled, and gripped one of Mycroft’s long, slender feet in one hand, tracing the arch and the instep. “You wrote the regs, after all. You wouldn’t have written a regulation that didn’t make damn good sense.”

Mycroft sniffed. “I’m afraid this regulation predates me,” he said. “There actually was a British Government before I arrived, you know.”

“You could have fooled me. You wouldn’t have let Churchill run roughshod over people to get the AO program he wanted.”

Mycroft shrugged. “I can’t say what I’d have done. It was a different time. People had different fears.”

Lestrade nodded, then said, softly, “Mind if I join you for awhile?”

Mycroft turned pink, and Lestrade could see him steel himself against something. But he nodded, nose pink and eyes not meeting his lovers. “Yes. For a while. But I am working.”

Lestrade nodded, then rose and came around the bed, easing himself into the open space on the side away from the door, and curling close to Mycroft. He slipped his arms around Mycroft’s waist, and pressed his forehead into the soft curve of his flank—softer now than it had been a few months before. He closed his eyes, then, and slept.

oOo

“I’m not a predator,” Letrade snarled at Dr. Lu. “I’m not. Damn it, when I think how hard I’ve worked to be reasonable about all this I want to hit something.”

Dr. Lu didn’t comment, letting Lestrade consider his own words. The Alpha sighed, after a few moments. “That wouldn’t help much, would it? Hitting to get my way.”

Dr. Lu shrugged. “We are all human, Greg. The tiniest female child is as likely to want to hit and kick and scratch to get her way as the strongest, most furious Alpha. The question isn’t whether you’d like to hit—it’s what you think and feel and do about that desire. A Beta woman will often feel profoundly guilty for wanting to respond with violence. A Beta man might actually feel validated by the anger. Or the other way around. So with Alpha and Omega. You want to hit—what do you do about it? How do you feel about it?”

Lestrade studied the psychiatrist carefully. He had proven a surprise to Lestrade. The man was a mule, like Sherlock—and shared some of Sherlock’s brilliance, as well as a similarly long, lean build. His features were mixed-race to an extreme level. He had green eyes, a round face and skull that suggested at least some black ancestry. His eyes had the classic Asian folded corner, but his skin and hair were classic Northern European—fair freckled skin and dark chestnut locks. He was the universal human. A photo of him could have been attached to a space probe and sent out to greet alien races.

Lestrade liked the man. Or at least, he trusted the man. He was finding their therapy sessions, combined with his work with Mycroft and Dr. Bangash, too difficult to make liking easy.

He considered Lu’s question. He made himself think about it—really think about it. He said, after a bit, “I’m not ashamed. Not of wanting to. Not even of knowing I can. I’m a man, I’m an Alpha, I’m a cop. Sometimes all three have to fight, yeah? Sometimes all three need to have a bit of a temper. A lot of good things are fueled with anger.”

Lu nodded. “Indeed. Anger accomplishes many things—good and bad. I’m glad to know you don’t disown your anger. That’s healthy.” He paused, then, and jotted something on a notepad, then looked up. “What about Omega anger? How do you feel about Mycroft’s anger at how his change affects him? About being Omega at all?”

The world seemed to crash around Lestrade. He scowled, and swore softly, and took a slow pace around the little office. He came to a stop in front of the window. He stretched, frustration fueling the motion, then reached up, crossing his arms behind his neck, glowering at the street below.

“Fuck me,” he said, growling the words out. “Hell.”

Lu waited.

“It’s different,” Lestrade admitted. “I’m sorry. It’s wrong. I can see it is wrong. I can see why it’s wrong. But it’s different.” He met Lu’s eyes. “I know it’s wrong—but anger’s mine. Fighting’s mine. I’m the Alpha.”

Lu nodded. “What else is yours, as the Alpha?”

Lestrade thought about the last session he’d had with Mycroft—about his gut frustration when Mycroft had complained bitterly about a street Alpha coming on to him, as though it wasn’t ordinary, normal behavior for an Alpha—as though it wasn’t a normal response to Mycroft’s increasing Omega cues. He considered his annoyance with how the entire sequence had played out, every element seeming off to him. The Alpha bodyguards should have moved first. Mycroft should have let them do their job. He shouldn’t have attacked the Alpha himself, and he shouldn’t have been so offended in the first place. It was just a normal response, a bit of show-off by a down-and-outer who saw something out of his reach, and had to compensate with a bit of chat and come-on.

He closed his eyes, rolling it through, considering it. He was smart. He was honest. He was better at analysis than most people—trained for it. He wasn’t sentimental.

“Sex is mine,” he said softly. “The lead is mine. Fighting is mine. Attraction is mine. Pride is mine.”

Lu let the words sit in the silence that followed.

Lestrade sighed heavily. “Looks like I have a lot of work to do, doesn’ t it?”

Lu chuckled, and made a small sound of agreement. “It’s never easy,” he said.  
“Not least because in some ways all those statements are true, especially when heat and rut come into play. But it’s best to understand that it’s an unfair truth going in, isn’t it?”

Lestrade nodded, and the session continued.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And for those of you who wanted to smack Sherlock--he does better this time.
> 
> Progress toward the heat...but we're not there yet.

Mycroft had begun going through the checklist of indicators for oncoming heat for weeks, now, on the recommendation of both his doctor and his therapist. Both assured him that he was going to deal with heat much better if he had some warning it was on the way.

“Nothing worse than getting caught,” the doctor said, and smiled. “My bond and I went through that, and never again, I tell you. I had to fight my way through a dozen damned Alphas hoping for free rides, and it took a police escort and an ambulance to get us home safe. Worst heat we’ve ever experienced.”

Mycroft had shuddered, unable to imagine his reaction if he and Lestrade had to go through that—and even less able to imagine how he’d cope if Lestrade was somehow kept from him.

“You work out Plan B,” his therapist said, in a calm, hearty Girl Guide voice, when Mycroft asked. “You sort out backup safe rooms you can lock securely. You sort out various ways to bring in an escort and a practical transport. Then there’s Plan C, which includes carrying at least a few toys and studying how to deal with adult heat on your own. I know it’s not what you want—but I also know you can do it. Hundreds have, and hundreds more will. There are situations that can still defeat your best plans—but usually you can count on success with a plan and two backups.”

Mycroft didn’t like it. He made a sour face and lifted his chin. “I do not intend to spend my first adult heat locked in a safe-house alone with a tote full of toys,” he growled.”

“Then you’ll start checking the list daily,” his doctor said, unperturbed. “More than daily, if you want to be secure.”

So Mycroft took his temperature and tested the production of lubricating fluids in his reproductive passage—and then checked again for consistency and mucosity. He peed on test strips and pricked his finger and watched little slips of paper turn various colors. He spat into flasks. He checked his pulse. His wrist biomonitor kept an ongoing set of graphs of too many indicators to count.

It was creeping up on him. He knew it even without the complicated rituals of measurement and testing. Heat was coming for him, a wild tempest heading in from southern climes, humid and funky and torrential. A monsoon of hormones and desires…

He was coping better with the “experiment” between himself and Lestrade, riding the cresting waves of desire more easily, with less fear and less guilt. Dr. Bangash was helping with that, making Mycroft use that strong mind to pick apart the memories and cultural cues that left him feeling defiled by his own need.  He liked the woman—she was wry and ironic, and patient—as patient as Lestrade.

“You’re not saying anything,” he’d accuse her, after he’d given in to a long bout of panic and self-disgust.

Her brows would raise, and her hands spread in bewildered innocence. “But Mycroft—what is there to say? Your presentation of subjective truth was eloquent and superb. Now all you have to do is find a way to integrate it with objective truth, yes?”

He snorted at her, and looked down his nose. “You’re no fun.”

She smiled. “Tell me truly, Mike—do you really think your mate is allowed to desire sex—and you aren’t? That he’s innocent of anything but responding to the combination of love and biological instinct, but you’re weakly giving in to depraved, unwholesome appetites? That his longing to have sex with you is in some way pure—and yours is corrupt?”

Mycroft made a sulky face. “No,” he grumbled. “But…”

“No buts. Tell me—how does it really work?”

He closed his eyes, and folded his hands over his knees. He allowed himself to remember the last time he and Lestrade had made love—real sex. Adult sex. Everything that would happen in heat short of the hormone storms and knotting.

It had felt good, when he was able to keep the fear at bay. He couldn’t always. Even on successful nights, sometimes the pheromones and feelings, the sound of Lestrade’s grunting moans and sighs, his own reflexive need to rock and hump and grind, looking for release—sometimes he flipped into bad memories, bad feelings. Then they’d stop and get their bearings. Mycroft would run relaxation exercises. He’d breathe…

He was fairly sure when his heat came, he would not have the luxury of stopping and breathing and doing quaint little exercises. He said so.

Dr. Bangash looked at him soberly. “Has it occurred to you that one advantage of heat is that it will carry you beyond your fear? If you’ve learned to enjoy your own desire, the hormones and pheromones will keep you too busy for the panic, so long as you don’t fight it. Satisfy the need and there’s very little to fear in heat, Mike.”

He hadn’t thought of it that way. He said so. She smiled.

“Yes,” she said. “Think about it.”

Mycroft had worked out his plans with Anthea, ensuring his schedule could be derailed at a moment’s notice. He’d asked her to work with Lestrade to ensure the same over at the Met, glad Anthea could take that role, sparing Mycroft the risk of being the nag and noodge.

Lestrade was spending more and more time with him.

Mycroft wasn’t sure how he felt about it. Sometimes he longed for the private solitude of his former life.

Sometimes he finished work at the end of an evening and realized his lover had fallen asleep at his side, arms around his waist. Mycroft would look down and frown, then trace the soft nap of silver and deep ash brown hair covering Lestrade’s cleanly shaped head. Mycroft was amused—he adored his lover’s skull… It made him feel a bit Sherlock-ish, though at least he preferred Lestrade’s skull attached to Lestrade, covered in living flesh and skin and hair.

He felt like expensive silk velvet to caress, Mycroft thought, stroking the solid dome pressing against his hip. He’d chosen Lestrade as much for logical, reasoned motives as for anything that could be called love—though he admitted to himself that for many years he had loved the man, in the chaste, longing way of hopeless crushes and secret fantasies. Now, though, it was all changed. Lestrade was his lover. He knew his moods, his weaknesses. He knew there were times he felt like he’d jump out of his own skin if he had to stay in the same room as the other man for even one more minute. He knew there were times Lestrade felt the same. He knew they angered each other, frustrated each other, confused each other. He knew that the relationship they were building was work—hard work, harder than anything Mycroft had ever experienced before, unless perhaps one considered the complications of trying to love and protect and guard Sherlock over the years while still maintaining some kind of relationship.

Love was hard. So damned hard.

His charts and graphs said he’d c ome into heat soon. Soon. Very soon.

Days, perhaps. A week? Two if things stretched out? No longer, his doctor said. Not unless something went wrong.

There was a long list of things that could go wrong for an Omega going off suppressants after years on. Most were no more than annoying. A very few were dangerous.

“You’re going to be all right,” Lestrade grumbled as Mycroft ran through a list of instructions to be followed if the worst happened.

“You don’t know that. No one knows that.”

Lestrade glared at him.

“Don’t pout,” Mycroft said, tartly.

Lestrade gave him a laughing grin, then, and said, “Why not? It brings out my laddish good looks. Surly, rough Alpha lad, me—sexy.” He glowered more fiercely, and pounced on Mycroft, pinning him against the kitchen counter, nuzzling in the turn of his neck.

Mycroft squawked, and pushed—but not all that hard. Unfortunately Lestrade was only too right—he was a sexy lad indeed, with his sun-and-shadow blend of blazing smiles and brooding frowns. He sighed against the man’s shoulder. “You’re not making this easier, Greg.”

“Not tryin’ to, love.”

Mycroft giggled. But when they were done—an hour and more later—he still made Lestrade go through the list with him, up to and including funeral plans and where to locate his will.

Then, when he was sure Lestrade knew what he was supposed to do—and where the instructions were if he forgot—he called Sherlock, who was next in line.

oOo

“Go away. You’ve decided to develop a sex life—fine. Leave me out of it.”

Mycroft leaned against the frame of the door to Sherlock’s flat. He’d been there for fifteen minutes already, trying to talk his way into Sherlock’s home. He patted fretfully at the arch of his lapel and the drape of his jacket, both losing form in the warm damp of the stairwell. “Sherlock, don’t be stupid. All I want to do is talk about my plans if things go wrong. Is that too much for a brother to ask?”

Inside he heard his brother storm angrily around the kitchen. Something crashed.

“What did you throw this time? An alembic?”

“A mug.”

“Well, that’s good, then.”

“It was china. From Mummy.” Sherlock clearly intended Mycroft to realize that Mummy would have things to say—and that Sherlock would blame it all on Mycroft for being so impossible.

He considered. Mummy had been rather broody since Mycroft had decided to drop his suppressents—alight with the idea of a grandchild. For the first time since Sherlock had been born, Mycroft had felt like “the favorite,” or at least as though he offered something sufficiently unique and valuable to hold his own in the unending competition for maternal love. One of the side effects, though, had been a tidal wave of gifts—the kind of gifts that had once been traditional for newly married women and expectant mothers.

“Did she send you the same china she sent me?” he asked, pondering the idea.

“How the hell would I know that?” Sherlock grumbled, exasperated. “Do I come over and check your kitchen cabinets to determine your china pattern?”

Mycroft chuckled. “Heaven forfend, brother-mine. I’ll ask another way. Did she gift you with a four-place-setting selection of Royal Albert bone china with a turquoise background, a pink bouquet of roses in the center of each piece, and butterflies on the borders and exteriors?”

Sherlock gave an inarticulate snarl that, all on its own, would have confirmed Mycroft’s guess. Then he said, reproachfully, “It’s all your fault, you know. Before you started this ‘family’ thing she knew better than to send me china with roses on.”

“I’m sure she’ll eventually recover her senses,” Mycroft said. “Now, seriously, Sherlock—do let me in. I want to talk to you about looking after Lestrade if this goes pear-shaped. It’s not like I have anyone else to ask…” His voice wobbled, and Sherlock swore more fiercely inside the flat.

“I hate you, you know,” his brother snarled, baritone fierce and deadly.

“Yes, but you don’t hate Greg,” Mycroft pointed out.

There was silence, and Mycroft worried for a moment. Then he heard his brother’s footsteps, and at last the door popped open and Sherlock scowled out. His hair was its usual tumbled riot of curls. His brows bunched in annoyance.

“I could, you know,” he said. “I’ve been working on hating him.”

Mycroft smiled and eased past him, murmuring, “Making much progress?”

Sherlock didn’t answer—but then, they both knew the answer. Lestrade, after all, was a very nice man.

“Here—I’ll make tea,” Mycroft said, sailing into the kitchen. He picked his way past shattered china and partially completed experiments, finding the electric kettle and locating clean mugs—more of the set from Mummy, not yet unboxed. When he had tea for both of them, he pottered back to the sitting room and sat in what was still known as “John’s Chair.” He handed Sherlock his mug, and settled deep into the armchair to drink his own.

Sherlock sipped, and studied him. His nostrils flared. He frowned.

“You’ve really gone and done it.”

Mycroft nodded. “So it would appear.”

Sherlock grunted and sipped more tea. “What’s all this stupid fuss about, anyway,” he asked, glowering.

Mycroft shrugged. “There’s a chance that when my heat arrives it will trigger a number of secondary reactions. But, then, I daresay you know that already. It’s exactly the sort of morbid medical information you revel in, after all.”

Sherlock sniffed, but proceeded to prove Mycroft right by reeling off a long string of medical terms indicating heart attack due to hormonally weakened blood vessels, organ failure, stroke…several versions of several of them, each deserving of its own Latin terminology.

“Splendid,” Mycroft said, when his brother caught his breath, preparing to continue. “No need to go on, little brother. I’ll assume your expertise rivals my omegologist’s own, and carry on from there. The short version is I could suffer illness, crippling injuries, brain damage, death, and a range of other things—and someone has to be there for Lestrade. Or has to take over if Lestrade isn’t available. I’ve chosen you.”

Sherlock glowered, shot back the remains of his mug of tea, then stormed out to the kitchen, where he could be heard assembling another using the still-hot water in the kettle.

“It would be better if you waited a moment for the water to return to near-boiling,” Mycroft called out to him.

“Shut up, Mike,” Sherlock growled back.

“As you wish.” Mycroft sat primly, tracing the curved handle of his umbrella, and looking at the butterflies printed on the sides of the mug.

Sherlock returned and dropped sullenly into his chair. He glared at Mycroft. “You can’t do this to me,” he grumbled.

“Why-ever not?” Mycroft asked. “What else are you good for, Sherlock?” His voice rose in frustration. “I know you don’t approve, but it isn’t like either of us has that many people to call on at the end of the day.

“Don’t say that,” Sherlock snapped.

“What?”

“’The end of the day.’”

Mycroft’s eyes widened as he registered the rough misery in Sherlock’s voice. Cautiously he said, “Sherlock? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock looked away, and said, simply, “You aren’t allowed to die.” He paused, and then, voice actively shaking, he said, “Who else is going to be my arch-enemy?”

The silence was thick and sweet and bitter. Mycroft waited, deprived of even a slight idea of what to say.

Sherlock drank his tea, then got up and made both of them new cups—this time letting the water heat first. He foraged in his cupboards and located a tube of Jammy Dodgers. In keeping with his character he ripped the Mylar wrapper open and offered them to Mycroft straight out of the pack.

“Want to play Snakes and Ladders?” he asked Mycoft, half an hour later.

“You cheat,” Mycroft pointed out.

“And? Your point? You do, too.”

“You can’t prove that. You’ve _never yet_ proved it.”

“I’ve proved it to be a necessary truth,” Sherlock said in righteous certainty. “Even if I haven’t determined all the necessary evidence.”

“Exactly. You don’t know for sure.”

“Do.”

“Don’t.”

“Do you want to play or don’t you?”

Mycroft looked at him tenderly. “Not really. But thank you for asking. Maybe next visit?”

“As if I’d let you in again.”

Mycroft smiled. “You always let me in, in the end.”

Sherlock sighed, and rolled his eyes, then said softly, “All right. Where’s your list of instructions?”

Mycroft reached into his breast pocket and drew out the envelope with the instructions. He handed them over silently. Sherlock opened the envelope and quickly read through the list, frowning, but making no comment. When he was done he rose, and carried the envelope to the mantel. He located a push-pin, and pinned the envelope to the edge of the oak top.

Mycroft sighed in regret for the damage to Mrs. Hudson’s property. “You do know they invented file cabinets for a reason?”

“Don’t push your luck,” Sherlock growled. “Now go on—get out. No doubt your dinner is growing cold and Lestrade’s having kittens thinking you’ve gone into heat without him.”

Mycroft rose and gathered his things. He stood, studying his brother. Sherlock studied him right back—razor-edged observation for razor-edged observation, their little grey cells struggling their way to a dead tie.

Mycroft smiled, a wistful, fond expression. “Thank you, brother-mine.”

Sherlock merely snorted.

But, then, he didn’t have to say more.

They were not given to hugs, those two, but that was only because both knew on some level that their entire lives were already too entwined for a hug to bring them any closer.

Sherlock was right, of course. Lestrade was in a white panic by the time Mycroft got home. But dinner had held up well, and Lestrade forgave all once he was sure Mycroft was all right, and they fell asleep together in Mycroft’s bed, as they did more often than not those days.

And so the days till Mycroft’s heat ticked on…


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat, Installment One. 
> 
> This is low on angst, and high on satisfaction--but, then, you expected that from me, yes? Have fun, bubbies....our Heroes do.

“When?” Lestrade’s voice rumbled and growled, rough from adrenalin.

Mycroft made himself remain calm, drawing a deep breath. “I’d say ‘hours,’ except I suspect that’s too conservative an estimate,” he said. “I believe it would be more accurate to say it’s already begun, just not become obvious yet. I don’t even trust my own senses—I think heat’s having an effect on my perceptions.”

He felt good—reason, combined with the results of all his ritual morning tests, suggested he felt much too good. He felt edgy and energetic. He also felt paranoid, hyperaware, and irritable.

He couldn’t even begin to claim he recognized the symptoms. His teen heats had always seemed to evade detection until he found himself sweating and slick, already trapped in desire with no idea what to do about it.

This time he knew what to do. This time he felt like Mycroft Holmes, the British Government, at his most capable and prepared.

He slipped his mobile from his pocket and tabbed Anthea’s autodial. Even as she picked up he said, “It’s showtime, dear. The British Government is going off shift—ready to pick up?”

Anthea made a small, grumpy sound.. “It’s five in the morning, sir.”

“Tell it to the birds and the bees, dear, they picked their flight time, not me. Are you ready? Or do you need me to hold the line a little longer while you brush your teeth and recall where your only clean panties are?”

She growled at him. “You malign me, sir. Even if I were not equipped at home, I have spares—both toothbrush and panties—at work. Consider the baton passed….and have fun, sir. Good luck. Be sure to call the security teams—they need to hear from you that I’m on rota and you’re off for the next week.”

“Will do,” Mycroft said, and swiftly did so.

He could hear Letrade doing much the same on his own mobile out in the flat’s sitting room. When he was sure the other man was done, he called out, “I’m going to shower, change, and check bedroom supplies, Greg. Will you check the emergency kit Dr. Jamison put together for me, and then make sure the auto-dial emergency numbers are all set?”

“Got it covered. Are you calling Sherlock?”

Mycroft made a face. “Do I have to? I mean—really, Greg. My brother. There are some boundaries that ought to remain sacrosanct.”

“He’s also your emergency contact, after me, and your executor if I can’t serve,” Lestrade said. “Think it’s mandatory.”

Mycroft felt his temper flare. “Damn it!” He wanted to rip throats. He wanted to slap Lestrade stupid…he wanted to slap Letrade for _being_ stupid. How could he fail to understand the obvious impossibility of Mycroft having to deal with baby brother at a time like this—over a topic like this? The entire idea made him feel ill—like crying.

He was crying. “Damn it,” he said again, voice shaking. “Hell.”

“What’s wrong?” Lestrade’s voice approached even as he spoke, footsteps quick and firm.

“Hormone storm,” Mycroft gasped between hiccupping sobs. “Bugger. Damn. Oh, bloody hell.”

“Breathe…”

“I know how to breathe, damn it. I’ve been breathing for all my life.” He wasn’t breathing well, though—he was panting frantically. The air was suddenly full of scents—thick, rich, seductive scents. He glanced at the door. Lestrade leaned on the door frame, hesitating to come in.

He’d never looked better before in all the years Mycroft had known him. He looked amazing. He looked edible. Something squirmed in Mycroft’s interior, then everything was alive and needy.

Touch—touch velvet cropped hair, supple skin. Feel muscles move.

“Back,” he managed to say. “Back—we’re out of time. Back out or we won’t get the med-kit checked or the numbers checked.”

“Call Sherlock,” Lestrade said, even as he obeyed. He shut the door. Mycroft felt an instant reduction in his need—enough to allow him a bit of thought.

He had things he had to do.

“Call Sherlock!” Lestrade shouted again from the next room.

Even his voice was sexy, Mycroft thought—then realized that was literally true. Letrade’s body was reacting to Mycroft’s pheromone output, and even his larynx was part of the reaction—he was developing the complex roar of an Alpha with a mate, a roar that warned off competitors and expressed authority and power to his Omega. It was a voice intended to dominate and intimidate.

Part of Mycroft rebelled, angry at his own instinctive reaction to that imperative—he should fight. He should resist. He was not submissive, he was not owned, he was not defeated.

He made himself go through the bedroom, checking drawers, making sure the supplies they’d stocked were present and easily found. There was a supply of canned drinks and packaged food, for between waves of sex. There were clean-up supplies and basic medical kit materials—even a heat that went well could lead to minor damage: sprains, minor bruising, minor tissue tears. So there were wipes and antiseptics and bandages and analgesics and cold packs and hot packs.

There were toys and lotions. Mycroft’s hands shook as they ran over those, but he was fairly sure by then they’d have just shaken anyway.

“Call Sherlock, or I will!” Lestrade bellowed again.

“Please, God, do!” Mycroft shouted back, hearing shifts in his own voice now—an edgy, frantic new note on the top of his natural tenor, like a high note on top of a lower chord. He sounded desperate. He paused, made himself relax, made his voice settle back in its natural range. “Bedroom supplies are all good,” he said. “Not a single tube of ginger nuts is missing. I’m going to shower, now.”

“You don’t really want me to call Sherlock,” Lestrade called, teasing, chiding, warning. “You really don’t.”

Mycroft’s temper ripped and flew wild. “Yes, Greg. I bloody want you to call Sherlock. Now finish that check and stop bloody nagging me.” He leaned over, panting again.

He wasn’t in any doubt at all now—this was it. Heat was upon him. Heat possessed him.

He started to panic, thinking how little it had taken to change him from his ordinary sane self to a whining, snarling lunatic who could not think of Lestrade’s hands without instantly thinking of very specific things he’d like Lestrade to do with those hands. Things Mycroft even now was never really comfortable thinking.

He heard Lestrade in the other room. He was calling Sherlock.

Thank God. Mycroft didn’t think he could have endured his brother’s reaction, no matter what it was. Even the highly unlikely chance of supportive good will and restrained manners would have been too much to bear.

He had to do something. What? Oh, right…shower.

He moved toward the bathroom, dropping his pajamas as he went. He cranked the water on, fingers fumbling as he twisted the water-pressure to the highest setting. He stepped in, and gasped. He loved showers ordinarily—but this was a shower on steroids. The spit of the drops, hard on his skin, the trickle and flow of the water pouring down his body, the heat, the lingering scent of soap from prior showers… he gasped in humid air, then before he could breathe out found himself reflexively gasping even more deeply—his own scent, the scent of Lestrade only a room away—he could smell them too clearly in the damp, warm air. It was a pheromonal assault.

It smelled good. God, so good. Other scents flicked in memory as his mind struggled for comparisons. Rare steak once, when he’d been on a mission and hadn’t eaten in weeks—a smell so rich and enticing and at the same time near-nauseating, but perfect. Hot chocolate drunk in Mummy’s kitchen on Christmas Eve. Good smells, so good…

Memory offered other smells, and he was already too far in heat to object or shy away—the musk smell of Lestrade’s groin, a scent carried in the curls around the base of his heavy cock. The taste of sperm. The combined scent of their shared release—each ejaculation different, Alpha and Omega, and yet the same. Both male and earthy and salty and bitter. Good smells.

He made himself wash, though his nose wrinkled back and he grimaced at the suddenly too-sharp, too intense rosemary body wash he usually preferred. He stepped out and toweled off, and grabbed the robe he’d already set ready on the back of the bathroom door—not the only robe he had on hand. Days of heat could do serious damage even to a limited wardrobe.

Lestrade was moving in the other room. Mycroft wanted him, and felt slithering, uneasy fear and shame. He wanted his lover—he wanted him so badly. He was flashing on his own panic, recalling too much what it was like to lose control, to feel possessed by the heat.

He made himself stop. He made himself complete each action one simple move at a time—moves thought out weeks in advance.

Brush teeth—this may be the last time in days that nicety even occurs to you.

Deodorant—it won’t do a thing about the pheromones, but again—days of sweaty, gnarly sex lay ahead.

Shave with the annoying, buzzing electric razor you bought specifically for heat, when your hands would shake too hard to wield your beloved antique straight-edge, or even a less dangerous cartridge razor.

Use the toilet.

Take a drink of water now—you may be grateful you did later.

He looked in the mirror. He looked terrified—younger than his technical forty-five years. His rust hair flopped damply over his forehead, returning his face to the shape he recalled from his teens. He was all eyes and sharp chin and beaky nose, he thought, spared only the dense turkey-egg freckles and acne. His mouth trembled, caught between desire and dread and grief.

And hope, he reminded himself fiercely. This had been his choice. He’d prepared. He’d chosen his own Alpha. He’d practiced and rehearsed and done all the work to get to this day.

This was not heat taking Mycroft Holmes. This was Mycroft Holmes taking heat.

He walked to the door of the bathroom and opened it.

Lestrade stood in the center of the bedroom. He’d cleaned, too, in the common bathroom. He was wrapped in a short, light Japanese-style robe that came to mid-thigh.

He looked beautiful. He smelled beautiful.

His eyes flared and darkened. His head dropped down, shoulders rising, until he looked like a bull or a bear or an elk or a stallion—all shoulder and thick neck, all chest and pride. Fierce and manly. He grumbled and rumbled, wordless, nostrils flaring as he tested the air, sucked down the odor of Omega in heat.

Mycroft wanted to run. He just wasn’t sure if he wanted to run from—or to.

To. He had to go to. This was what they’d prepared for.

He could feel his body in a sudden blaze of shifts. Lubricant leaked between the cheeks of his bum, slippery and slick. His tight arse was twitching and squeezing, longing for penetration already. His cock was risen already. His body was prepared—already.

Untouched, and yet ready—already.

He reached Lestrade and took in the sight of the Alpha in perfect, aching restraint—his own desire become obvious, his cock thrusting between the front panels of his robe, his scent everywhere, and yet he did not move, did not grab, did not grope, did not by a single action threaten or rob or rape Mycroft of his choice. He shook with his  own control.

Mycroft’s eyes flashed, and something beyond words rose up in him. He grabbed the tie of Lestrade’s robe, tugged the knot free, let the robe fall open. He took in the vision of his mate, the weighty, rock-hard cock, the swing and gravity of his balls, the tightness of his belly and thighs and bum, all muscle ready to drive into Mycroft. He took in eyes, black in the thinnest ring of brown, hungry and needy and desperate.

A part of Mycroft laughed insanely in the shifting, hallucinatory rooms of his mind palace.

His mate was desperate. Helpless. Gagging for it. Filthy with desire. Possessed. All the things Mycroft had been terrified of in himself he saw reflected back in Lestrade’s longing gaze. But he also saw his own control reflected there, and his own choice.

He put his hand on Lestrade’s chest, stroked the salt-and-pepper hair. He followed it down, and down, to the navel, to the muscles of the lower belly, to the curls. He wrapped his hand around Lestrade’s cock, fingers barely able to close around the fully erect girth.

“Mine,” he said, voice growling. “ ** _Mine._** ”

He had never felt stronger, or more empowered.

“Mine,” he said again, and leaned in against Lestrade’s chest.

Things got a bit chaotic after that, but it was a glorious chaos.

That first time…his body was ready, needing almost no preparation. Muscles relaxed, lubricant flowed like honey from a broken hive, oozing and coating everything. In very little time they moved from clumsy, passion-driven snogging and groping to placing themselves for penetration. Lestrade had just barely managed to get Mycroft onto the bed at all—he lay crosswise, bum hanging over the edge, legs wrapped tight around his lover’s waist, gripping with all the strength of his thighs and calves, already trying to pull Lestrade in by direct force.

“Wai’-wai’-wait. Bloody hell, Mike, you’re hot…” Lestrade fumbled, frantically checking he was properly aligned with Mycroft’s anus and the mutated plumbing within. “Have to make sure I go up the right tube, love,” he gasped.

Mycroft was past caring. All the nerves that ringed his arsehole were alive and singing Hallelujah and Happy Day and a funky, nasty rendition of Gimme That Thing.  He pushed hard against the knob of Lestrade’s cock, rejoiced in the swing and slap of Lestrade’s stones knocking against the bend of back and bum. “Give,” he snarled. “Give. Now.” He clutched Lestrade’s shoulders, rammed his face into the turn of Lestrade’s neck, nipped and snuffled up pheromones and sucked on tender skin. “Give.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lestrade said, but still managed to take his time, sliding in with one slow, smooth thrust.

The stretch and burn and ache of it was wonderful. God, wonderful. Mycroft coiled his spine, thrusting back, aching for deeper, harder, faster. The squelch and slip and smell were addictive. It felt good—couldn’t feel better…

Until Lestrade’s hand wrapped  around Mycroft’s cock. Until Lestrade’s mouth closed on one nipple and suckled hard and sweet, all tongue and raw vacuum.

For a second—a very brief second—Mycroft felt the old terror.

I am possessed. This is not me.

But Dr. Bangash had been correct. The passion of heat itself—heat fulfilled, heat experienced in security and trust—left little room for fear or horror or self-loathing. Sex without heat had been more embarrassing—more humiliating. Sex without heat had been harder to enjoy. This?

He was riding the waves of need like a dolphin, leaping in the breakers, diving under the foaming crests, twining with his lover in a sea of mutual need. It was all yes, and now, and please, and more, and mine, and it went on and on and on, far longer than he and Lestrade had been able to maintain outside heat.

He couldn’t have said how long it was before he felt his own climax begin to gather and coalesce. He frowned, and thrust, and muttered, “Here we go, love. I’m almost there. Ready?”

“Now,” Lestrade snarled, and Mycroft realized he’d been holding back, fighting for control, determined to keep himself and his lover in sufficient sync that they’d climax in roughly the same time-frame. Now he drove, his thrust speeding, and he straightened, drawing Mycroft’s bum up off the mattress in his quest for that final storm of sensation.

Then Lestrade exploded—it felt, impossibly, as though there was only “in,” driving thrusts, and Lestrade bellowing, his voice raw and deep and animal. His face was dark with blood and need, twisted with release, his straight white teeth gleaming as he snarled his orgasm. His arms wrapped tight. His head snapped back, and he arched high—then he coiled, ducking down, bending over.

For a fraction of a second Mycroft wasn’t sure whether the raw sexual fury of Lestrade coming in him and above him would throw him out of his own desire. Then something responded with need—deep, joyful need, and he raged back, his cock creaming, spreading a hot sheet of come between them. He felt Lestrade penetrate deeper, and deeper—and then he felt it—the blossoming of Lestrade’s knot.

In that moment it was glory and fulfillment—the grace note that rose above all the rest to shimmer in the air and crown the perfect chord of their love-making. It didn’t hurt. Mycroft felt full to bursting. He felt stretched to his limit. He felt contained, Lestrade’s tight embrace more restrictive than the knot seemed at that moment.

They writhed against each other, bodies trying to strip the last ecstasy from the moment. Then, second by second, Mycroft’s experience dimmed, stilled, surrendered to the inevitable end. He drew a breath, and reached up, cradling his hand in the sweaty curve of Lestrade’s nape, caressing his skull affectionately with one thumb.

“We ought to try to budge onto the bed the rest of the way,” he murmured. “Your back’s going to hate you if you try to hold me up till your knot lets go.”

Lestrade grunted, then did what Mycroft would have said impossible, or at least improbable, only hours before. He wrapped his lover tight, one arm curving behind his shoulders, the other ducking just under his bum, and picked him up, keeping them close and connected even as he turned and fell backward onto the mattress. He swiveled and twisted, and then eased Mycroft above him.

Mycroft, straddling his lover’s hips now, placed his palms on the bed, braced himself, and looked down. Lestrade looked back up, boyish face lit with satisfied, smug delight.

“Worked out okay, I think, yeah?”

Mycroft snorted. “I think that’s the least we can say.”

“Happy?”

He considered. He nodded, and leaned down to kiss the tip of Lestrade’s nose—a nose he envied his lover terribly, as it was short and round-tipped and tidy and very Celtic indeed—not quite pug, but in the same broad family of nose styles. “Happy,” he said, and gingerly tested what it felt like to lean his weight into the connection between them.

Lestrade’s knot sank deep in him. He’d expected to feel trapped. He didn’t. He could wait. In the meantime he and Lestrade had a victory to relive.

“You were so damned hot,” Mycroft said, leaning close, happily growling in his lover’s ear. He felt light, and free, and frivolous, and fluffy—all things unfamiliar to him, and gloriously welcome.

“Me?” Lestrade chuckled and rolled his eyes, then trickled fingers up Mycroft’s thighs, coming to rest just above the peaks of his hips. “Me? I couldn’t believe it when you grabbed me and claimed me.” He attempted a sultry, sexy rumble, part purr, part growl. “’Mine!’ I thought I’d bloody died and gone to Alpha heaven.”

“Well, you didn’t die,” Mycroft said, smirking. “Maybe you just got an early tour of the eternal real estate.”

They started to laugh, then, and curled into each other, holding tight, touching, smiling, kissing, nibbling.

“It was good then?”

“Yes, Greg. It was good.”

And it was, though as they later admitted, things got a bit excitingly off-plan in the final phases. But by then they’d already affirmed that they could manage heat quite well, and enjoy every bit of it.

**Author's Note:**

> There are so many problems with standard AO assumptions. A biological boondoggle that makes little if any sense is often set up as though it would dominate society--and as though those who live with the various mutations had little if any agency in how they then dealt with it. 
> 
> So, by now you know: I at least hand-waved a reason for the silly mutations. Churchill and Roosevelt, presumably during WWII, let their science boffins experiment with genetics that quite honestly would have been beyond them at the time, but I'm willing to jump them seventy-five years to a century ahead of themselves. That is a drop in the bucket of time, after all. So at the same time they're buggering around with atom splitting and all sorts of other scientific mallarky, the better to wage bloody war, they're also inventing a better Briton and American: Allies will have more breeding options, and their extra mutations will offer Alphas who are bigger, stronger, faster, and tougher than normal Beta men, and Omegas who are fertile longer and with more options than ordinary women, with all the strength and endurance of an ordinary Beta man.
> 
> And they'll have to breed, right? And form stable relationships because of bonding and heat and all, right? 
> 
> Yeah. And the first Omega who figures any of it out will go on the pill in ten seconds flat, because really, who wants to live as a committee's design for a New, Improved Wo-Man?
> 
> So. Anyway. I still think the biology is suspect, but it's at least been lamp-shaded a bit, as have some of the odder socio-instinctive issues. And now our two characters can work with the complicated courtship involved when one of you has been passing as something he is not for his entire adult lifetime.
> 
> Which brings me to the title. The Jubilee year, established in the Old Testament, was a 25 or 50 year celebration in which slaves were freed, land was returned to its original owners, and other similar blessed events occurred. As Mycroft has been about 25 years on suppressants, roughly, and is about to revert to his own original biology, it seemed like a good title. Freedom comin' on....


End file.
